


Black Flag Over Texas

by electricalgwen



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Politics, M/M, Supernatural and J2 Big Bang Challenge 2011
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-09
Updated: 2011-07-09
Packaged: 2017-10-21 04:30:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 32,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/220909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricalgwen/pseuds/electricalgwen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jensen belongs to a team of mercenary vigilantes that is trying to stop a group of anarchists whose goal is the dissolution of the USA. They get information that a student group on UT Dallas campus is harboring at least one of the major players, and Jensen is assigned to an undercover mission to infiltrate the group.</p><p>His first day on campus, he meets a final-year PhD student named Jared who would be exactly Jensen’s type – if he weren’t a prime suspect. Move by move, like chess pieces, actions escalate, and the stakes get higher. Jensen and his colleagues are dealing with computer espionage, bombings, and kidnapping threats, as the institutions of government waver around them, threatening to fall. Ultimately, Jensen is forced to make a choice that pits revenge and love against the greater good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Flag Over Texas

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in the same universe as Green Means Go. It is a prequel, but both stories stand alone, and may be read in either order.
> 
> Written for the 2011 round of spn_j2_bigbang. Art was made by ladytiferet. Beta-read by laisserais and dancetomato who kindly fixed all my non-American vocabulary. Any remaining errors are of course entirely my fault (and please do let me know about them!)
> 
> This is purely a work of fiction.

Jeff knew what he was doing, calling the meeting for such an early hour.

Jeff always knows what he's doing. In the three years Jensen's worked for him, he's never once seen Jeff make a misstep. There've been a couple of times Jensen couldn't imagine things would all work out, figured Jeff must have screwed up somewhere, but in the end it would all fall into place and, yeah, part of the plan all along.

It's the main reason Jensen's still here. He hadn't exactly planned to end up working for a criminal organization—which, okay, they're a pretty moral group, but still they're technically criminals—but a) it pays the bills, b) he's good at it, and c) he can't stand working with idiots. Any other workplace he's been in, this has been a problem. Occasionally one which led to him being fired, or resigning in a spectacularly vocal fashion.

Jeff doesn't put up with idiots either.

Unfortunately, being forewarned does not always translate into being forearmed. Jensen is perfectly aware of Jeff's powers of planning and manipulation, but even he's not immune to them, especially when Jeff holds team meetings at fucking seven a.m.

Katie slides into the seat beside him, taking a slurp of coffee.

Jensen cracks his eyes open. "Where'd you get that?!"

She whisks it out of his reach. "Hands off, Ackles."

"Mine's gone," he says, pitifully.

She's unmoved. "Tough. You should have gotten extra-large."

"I did."

She clucks her tongue. "You really need to get a handle on this addiction of yours."

"Man's gotta have a vice," Chris says, dropping into the seat on Jensen's other side. "Coffee's less trouble than booze or women."

"Speaking of which, thanks for last night." Jensen rolls his head on the back of the seat, twisting to look at his roommate.

Katie splutters into her coffee. Chris glares at Jensen. "What?"

"Thanks for not bringing her home." Jensen shrugs. "I appreciated being able to take a shower without some girl wandering in. For a change."

Chris rolls his eyes. "I wasn't with a girl. I was working, you dick."

"Don't let him shit you." Aldis appears on the far side of Cassidy. "I did all the _work_. He just hung around looking scary."

"Hey," Chris objects. "I hit a couple of people for you."

"Yeah, but you like doing that."

"And you like hacking. Still counts as work."

Aldis sighs. "It's not _hacking._ When I was fourteen, in my mom's basement, using stolen internet to adjust my school records? That was hacking. This is cyberespionage."

"A rose by any other name..." Jensen intones.

"Shut up." Aldis glares at him. "Katie, can't you spill your coffee on him or something?"

"I think he'd enjoy it too much."

"What were you after?" Jensen's genuinely curious. He likes hearing Aldis rattle on about computers. At first he'd get lost after the first few sentences, but after several months working with the guy, he can actually understand at least half the stuff Aldis says.

It's been a mutually beneficial friendship. Aldis was fit and all, but couldn't fight worth a damn when Jeff signed him up. Jensen and Chris took it on themselves to teach him enough that he wouldn't get himself killed in his first month out.

"Well, you know that StarOil job?" Jensen nods. "Turns out, the overseas accounts..."

The door flies open and the last member of the team strolls in.

"Whoa," Jeff says. "I'm impressed, Jensen. Thought I might have to send Cassidy to shake your ass out of bed."

"Nah," Jensen yawns. "I'm a professional. You pay me to be somewhere at seven a.m., I'll be there."

"I'm not paying you."

"Indirectly." Jensen shrugs. "Can't get paid for a job if I don't show up and get given it."

"Glad to see your work ethic is in order."

Jensen nods, and shuts his eyes; the sun is rising blindingly over Jeff's left shoulder. "So, give us the rundown, and I can go back to sleep."

Jeff chuckles.

"Consider this morning a practice run. Getting used to your new schedule."

Jensen opens his eyes, so he can narrow them and glare at Jeff. "What new schedule?"

Jeff hits a button. The window shades slide down, and the projector hums to life. Instead of the usual—video surveillance footage, weapons specs, photos of their mark—the wall is lit up with...

"A class schedule?" Aldis says.

Jensen has a bad feeling about this.

"Jensen's class schedule," Jeff confirms. "You're going back to school. Congratulations on making it in to the Masters' program, by the way. It's pretty competitive."

"Uh uh." Jensen shakes his head. Jeff's expression doesn't change. He holds up his hands. "No way. Send Cassidy."

"I will," Jeff says mildly. "But I need her on something else. You're my choice for on-campus. I need you to be undercover for the next few months, infiltrating a student group."

"I'm too old." Beside him, Katie gives an unlady-like snort. "No one's gonna believe I'm starting college _now._ "

"Jesus, Ackles. You ever hear of a mature student?"

Jensen glares; she's really not helping.

"That's the idea," Jeff says dryly, "although I might have to rethink the mature bit."

"Kane looks like a college boy," Jensen retorts.

"Fuck that, I do not."

"Sure you do. All grunge band and shit. You hardly ever go to class, just play the campus bar and smoke up."

Jeff shakes his head. "You."

Jensen sulks.

"You're ex-military." Jeff points at Jensen. "Served a couple of tours overseas. Did a pretty good job, too. Good enough that when you had to leave the military, you managed to leave with a clean record and some funding to go back to college. You're signed up for a Master's degree in PoliSci, with an elective in criminology."

"Fancy," Chris says. "What's he gonna do with that?"

"I'm not gonna actually get a degree," Jensen grits out. "Hell, I'm not even sure I'm gonna take this job."

That's the point at which Jeff usually bitches at him, reminding him of the amount of money involved and how lucky he is to be working for him. Followed by Jensen snarking back to preserve some self-respect, even though in the end they both know he's gonna do whatever crazy thing Jeff's dreamed up for him this time. It's the same for everyone on the team. They _are_ independent contractors, after all. Could leave any time they liked. They just don't choose to, that's all. Jeff's gigs are good ones.

It doesn't happen that way today, though. Jeff is silent. That's unusual enough in itself to make the banter stop. They all sit quietly, looking to Jeff, who's staring at the floor.

"Look," he says finally, and his tone is stark and serious. "I know most of our jobs are for money. Good money."

" _Great_ money," Aldis interjects.

"Great money," Jeff agrees. "But this one's different. I'm not even sure I can see all of this one. We play it right, there's probably money in it. Somewhere. But that's not the reason I'm taking this one on."

Jensen narrows his eyes and stares at Jeff. Jeff's looking around at each of them in turn; when he meets Jensen's gaze, he holds it only briefly, then drops his eyes.

Jensen sucks in a breath.

"Who's hiring us?" he asks.

Jeff closes his eyes for a few seconds, before smiling ruefully and shaking his head.

"Never just a pretty face," he says.

"Nobody's hiring, are they?" Jensen chews his bottom lip. "You're doing this one yourself."

"Yeah."

"What's in it for us?"

"Don't worry," Jeff says wearily. "I'll pay you the usual amount. Assuming we're all still alive and out of prison."

He sets his coffee mug on the desk.

"You guys listen to the news, right?"

Aldis waffles a hand back and forth. Jeff sighs.

"Listen, read, whatever. You must have noticed there's been a lot of political shit lately."

"There's always a lot of political shit."

"Yeah, yeah. But most of it's posturing. Partisan fights, arguments over details. It's theater for the plebs. The stuff that's been going on the last several months though, it's different. That shit with the government threatening to shut down, the Wisconsin stupidity. States passing reactive laws to get around decisions made by Washington or the Federal courts. The wave of Green protests in northern California."

Katie's nodding. She looks pissed.

"I was talking to a guy the other day," Jeff continues. Jensen isn't surprised; Jeff's always talking to some guy or other. Always anonymous, occasionally trustworthy, they could be anyone from the squeegee kid on the corner to the leader of a small nation. Jensen's never actually wanted to know too much about the mechanics of Jeff's operation. Jeff runs a solid team, he picks good jobs—enough of a challenge to stay interesting; not so much that Jensen fears dying before he's thirty-five—and he stays out of trouble. Jensen's happy being a mercenary.

"We figure this is being organized."

Chris looks dubious, to put it mildly. "Organized? What's organized about shit like that?"

"It's different groups," Katie says. "Different levels of government. Different issues. How are they connected?"

Jensen notes the wording. Not, _what makes you think they're connected,_ or _how could they be._ They've all learned better than to doubt Jeff.

"What do they have in common?"

"People are idiots," Chris drawls.

"They're related to the stock market," Aldis proposes. Katie just shrugs.

Jeff turns to look at Jensen.

He doesn't want to disappoint Jeff, but he can't quite grasp the shape of it. That's what Jeff's best at: hints and edges, shapes and shadows. Discerning patterns from chaos. He shakes his head.

"One theme that keeps coming up," Jeff says, "is conflict between state and federal jurisdiction. It feels like someone's working on weakening federal authority. Giving states reason to challenge it. Or reason to break away."

"Break away?" Aldis scoffs. "Nobody's that crazy."

"Sure they are," Katie says. "My friend's neighbor is that crazy. Belongs to the Republic of Texas Separatist Movement and everything."

"There've been various separatist movements around the country for a long time," Jeff says. "Texas is only one. There's Cascadia in the north-west. The Mormons would love to run Utah themselves, and the Confederacy's never really settled in well. The whole Patriot Movement is basically a loose confederation of anti-government organizations—groups and individuals who think the US government is illegally infringing on citizens' liberties."

Aldis snorts. "They're a bunch of racist, right-wing gonzos."

"Yeah, but a lot of them are basically separatists," Jeff says. "And the atmosphere's right. A couple of years ago, a poll suggested that almost a quarter of Americans supported a state's right to peacefully secede from the US. A quarter! That's the highest rate since the Civil War."

"But that's just theoretical," Katie interjects. "Polls don't reflect reality. If a group _really_ tried to pull out of the country, don't you think people would object?"

"The government would," Jeff says. "People? I'm not sure. 'People' is a tough concept."

"The sheep'll go where they're led," Chris says.

Aldis chuckles. Chris looks at him, eyebrows raised.

"Sheeple," Aldis grins. "Like..." He subsides, shaking his head, as the rest of the team roll their eyes and turn their attention back to Jeff.

"This guy came to me because he has good intel that suggests there's a group right here in town that's up to their neck in it. Texas is already pretty unhappy with Washington. Give it a nudge in the right direction, and things could start going south pretty fast."

"What kind of nudge?"

Jeff shrugs. "I don't know. That's where you come in."

He turns back to the wall still showing the weekly schedule of a PoliSci Master's student.

"There's a student society in the PoliSci department. It bills itself as a discussion and philosophy group. Mostly shooting the shit over a beer on Friday afternoons, that sort of thing. They host a couple of debates a year, sponsor a visiting speaker. We're pretty sure at least one of our targets is a member of the group."

"Makes sense," Katie says. "Most activists are young."

"So are a lot of terrorists," Jeff says grimly. "They love student societies. Great places to promote their political ideas and identify possible recruits."

"Plus it gives them a safe public space to meet in person," Jensen says.

"Terrorists?" Aldis says. "Whoa, hold up. You think that's the kind of thing they're planning?"

"What's the kind of thing?" Chris says.

"Blowing shit up? Assassinating the President? You know, terrorist stuff."

"I don't know what they're planning," Jeff says. "They may not be using terrorist tactics, but we can't rule anything out. I need you," he looks at Jensen, "to get into the group, identify our target and get me whatever information you can."

"No sweat," Jensen says.

Jeff narrows his eyes at him. "We get one shot at this. Take your time. And when you think you've got something, bring it directly to me. _Do not_ engage. I want to know what they're planning; I want to know anyone they're working with. For all I know we've got the national organizers right here in our town, but this bunch might be small fry and we'll have to follow a trail back to headquarters. So keep cover no matter what, until I pull you out. Okay? Big picture, here."

Jensen gives him a flat stare. "Got it."

"Could take months," Chris says, looking far too amused. "His cover'll have to be convincing. Class projects. Exams. Term papers."

"Fuck you." Jensen presses the heel of his hand against his forehead.

"I need you in Washington." Jeff turns to Katie. "Get in with the environmental lobbyists. Find out who's really behind the representatives pushing for energy reform—who's actually devising their strategy."

"Relevance?" Katie frowns.

"If the government passes any more laws that could be seen as anti-oil—you know, things like carbon tax or increased clean-up penalties—some powerful Texans are gonna be pretty damn unhappy."

Katie purses her lips. "Those are good things. Those are things I _want_ to see passed. You're not telling me everyone who supports the environment is a terrorist."

"No," Jeff says, "but it's a contentious issue and they'd get farther with some diplomacy. They're pushing too hard. My guess is they're being manipulated into an aggressive approach, by someone aiming to drive a wedge between Texas and the federal government."

It makes sense. Jensen watches Katie twiddle her hair around a finger, something she always does when she's processing.

"Aldis and Chris will stay local," Jeff continues. "We'll work on similar infiltration and surveillance on the electronic side of things. Find a way in, look around, but again, don't engage. You find a trail, follow it but keep your distance."

"When you say _we,_ " Aldis sighs, "you of course mean _me._ Please tell me you're not gonna make me haul this Luddite around," he tilts his head at Chris, "to annoy me while I'm working."

"I'll keep him busy," Jeff says mildly. "We'll still take the occasional side job, but be ready to respond to any intel that Jensen identifies."

He looks around at each of them. "And be careful. I know, I know," he holds up a forestalling hand, "you always are. But this is different than our usual. Guys out to make a buck or cheat the system—they'll cut and run if the payoff's not there, if we make it dangerous for them. But these guys, they're fighting for ideals. They want to bring the system down, they want anarchy. They're not gonna quit when we think they will. When they should."

"We're fighting anarchists?" Aldis shakes his head. "I feel like I'm in a TinTin cartoon."

Katie looks blank. "What do dogs have to do with anything?"

"Not RinTinTin." Aldis rolls his eyes. "Man, does nobody read the classics? TinTin, you know, with the anarchists always sneaking around with their bombs and their little black berets..."

"This isn't France." Chris turns back to Jeff. "It's not gonna be that easy. Did your informer have anything useful for us? Do we know what they're planning?"

Jeff shakes his head. "Not sure yet. We do know they're good with computers. They may be planning something along those lines: a virus, or a security breach. Or they may have something more direct in mind. Couple of years ago, a German group published a website that was basically a how-to manual for grass-roots terrorism: detailed descriptions of how to damage rail lines, power pylons, law enforcement vehicles, you name it."

He rubs his jaw. "The Republic of Texas guys, the traditional groups—they're older. This one's different, I think. The fact it's based on campus means it's a young group, or trying to appeal to youth, and that usually means a higher potential for violence. I don't wanna see my city—my _country_ —torn all to hell."

He looks around at each of them in turn. "Whatever its faults, I think this is a good country. I think we're stronger together, and we keep each other in check. I don't like the idea of where Texas might be headed, if she's out on her own."

"So, it's not our usual type of job. You don't have to sign up for this one. But I'm taking it on, and I want the Ghosts with me. You're a damn good team."

Jensen has good instincts. They've saved his ass more times than he can count.

Right now, they are suggesting he might want to consider declining this job, and instead run hard in the opposite direction.

Sometimes, you've gotta ignore base instinct.

He curses his moral conscience and nods. "I'm in."

***********************

Jared shoulders open the door to his office. Sandy squeals when she sees him, jumping up and holding the door open for him. He puts his armful of books on the floor beside his desk and scoops her into a hug. "Hey, beautiful!"

The PoliSci department has been steadily expanding, and for the past several years the number of grad students has exceeded the number of office rooms available. As a final year PhD candidate, he could have pushed to be given one of the single offices. They're shoebox-tiny, though, make him feel claustrophobic. He'd shared with Sandy last year—her first year, his second—and they'd hit it off immediately. She'd listened to his rants, told him when he was being stupid, asked him questions that made him think, and harassed him about writing his dissertation in just sufficient quantities to make him do it without making him snap. They've critiqued each other's thesis proposals, taken a couple of classes together, gotten drunk together, and once, in a fit of spectacularly bad judgment, made out. Getting past that, with grace and no hard feelings, confirmed them as friends for life.

It doesn't bother Jared to share the space as he reads, highlights, writes, edits, makes bad coffee in his teensy ancient coffeemaker and occasionally takes a five minute break to play mini-basketball. They work out mutually exclusive office hours for the courses they're TA-ing, and otherwise Jared never minds having her around. Sandy's a whole lot quieter than the couple in the apartment next to his, who have astoundingly loud sex (which may or may not involve a trapeze, whips, or fruit) at unpredictable hours; writing at home is a non-starter. Plus, she brings him cookies.

"Did you have a good Christmas?" She steps back, looks him up and down. "New clothes! Nice."

"Mom went all out." Jared grins. "Figured I'd start the semester off looking sharp. You know I'm gonna spend the last month before my defense in nothing but pajama pants."

She laughs. "Just promise me you'll remember to wear a shirt when teaching. I don't need another bunch of lovesick undergrads stalking our office."

"I'm not doing any undergrad lectures this term." Jared allows himself to smirk just a little. "Final semester, remember?"

"Oh, right." Sandy sighs. "I don't have undergrads, but McKean asked me to give a couple of lectures in Applied Regression."

"Wow!" Jared grins. "That's impressive." Second year grad students teaching the first years isn't unheard of, but it's not exactly common. Sandy had aced that course, though, and McKean's not known for giving his own lectures.

Sandy shrugs. "Good thing I kept all my notes from last year. People hate that class. I didn't really want to take it on, but it's not like I could say no. I keep telling myself it'll look good on my teaching CV."

She drops into her chair and shoots him a mischievous grin. "I'm also telling myself there's bound to be at least one hot guy looking to me to teach him stuff."

"I'm pretty sure it's against policy to date one of your students," Jared points out. "Abuse of authority, sexual harassment—any of that ringing a bell?"

"Oh, I know." Sandy smiles dreamily. "I just like having a nice view when I'm droning on to a mass of people who aren't listening."

Jared laughs. "I guess."

Sandy spins her chair idly, kicking at the leg of her desk. "Anyway, I'm not the issue. We still need to find you someone to date."

"Nah." Jared's used to Sandy trying to set him up. She's convinced that he's secretly miserable, or bitter, or saving himself, and no matter what he says, she won't believe he just can't be bothered right now.

Sure, his last relationship had burned him. Badly, even. And fine, he hasn't made much of an effort recently. But it's not like he's sworn off dating forever. It's just...this is his final year. He doesn't have time or energy to devote to anyone at this point.

Sandy keeps saying that love shouldn't be that much work, that Jared's relationships are too one-sided, that he needs to find someone who'll treat him right. That he just needs to meet the right person. That when he does, he'll _know._

Jared thinks Sandy's been reading far too many women's magazines, but he has the sense not to tell her that. They share an office, after all.

"Seriously, Sandy. It's my last term. I've got a dissertation to finish and defend, I have to put in my hours at the library, and I don't want to skip out on the Friday group." He sighs. " _And_ , they're still making me take that damn seminar class."

"What?" Sandy looks outraged. "The one you couldn't get into in first year? You're way beyond that now! I thought they were going to waive it?"

"So did I." Jared sighs heavily. "But admin says it's a required class and I have to have it on my transcript to graduate."

"You could appeal!" Sandy's always standing up for the oppressed; Jared thinks it's adorable, but usually completely unnecessary in his case. "It was their administrative error, screwing up your registration."

"I guess I could," Jared shrugs, "but it's not worth it. I don't think it's gonna take a whole lot of work, and the discussions'll probably be interesting. It's just kind of annoying they're making me do it now, on top of all the other stuff I have to do."

He smiles at her. "So, you can lay off the match-making. I'm going steady with books all semester."

Sandy smiles back. "But at the end of it, you'll be done! Dr. Jared Padalecki. Any school with half a brain will be falling over themselves to hire you."

"Here's hoping."

Her smile fades. "I'll miss you."

Jared's stomach rumbles loudly, ruining the moment.

"Campus café?" Sandy says.

"Right behind you."

Sandy retrieves her purse and they head for the door.

"And then _,_ " she says, as Jared locks it behind them, "we'll find someone to fall head over heels for you."

Jared grins and slings his arm around her shoulder as they head down the hall. "Whatever makes you happy."

"Hey, it's about making _you_ happy." Sandy nudges him with her elbow. "You can't hide out with me and my cookies for ever, you know."

He knows. The end's in sight. He just has to make it through the term, finish his dissertation, find a job, and... start his life.

Whatever that is.

***********************

Jensen's first morning on campus could start out better. Of course, the fact that it's morning is a significant part of the problem.

"Eight-thirty class?" he'd said, staring incredulously at the schedule. "Who the fuck can think straight at eight-thirty in the goddamn morning?"

"Get a coffee maker with a timer," Katie advised.

Jensen did. And sent the bill to Jeff. He's moved into a small bachelor apartment near campus, so now he doesn't even have Chris to kick him out of bed in the mornings.

He's still mostly stumbling around with his eyes shut. All in all, he's lucky that what finally stops him is colliding with someone, not falling down a set of stairs or walking in front of the Route 883 bus.

"Hey," a voice says. It's a nice voice, but it's far too warm and cheery for this hour of the morning. "You okay?"

"Sorry, man," Jensen says, forcing his eyelids open a crack.

Enough visual information gets through to kick his brain into high gear, and his eyes snap fully open. Holy shit, the guy in front of him is gorgeous. Jensen nearly starts drooling. He figures he could probably blame it on still being asleep.

"Sorry," he says again. "Didn't see you. I'm, uh, not really a morning person."

The guy's laugh is as big and beautiful as he is. "Yeah, I can tell."

"Jensen," Jensen says, sticking out a hand.

"Jensen," the guy repeats, engulfing Jensen's hand in his own and shaking it firmly. Jensen imagines those large hands other places on his body, and barely manages not to whimper. "Nice to meet you. I'm Jared."

"Jared." Jensen nods. "So you're, uh, a student here? Too?"

Christ, he sounds like a moron. Jeff should kick his ass. Then again, Jeff should have known not to send Jensen on early morning missions. Plus, Jeff probably hadn't figured in the effect of Jensen meeting the hottest guy he has ever seen.

"Yeah." Jared smiles, finally letting Jensen's hand drop. "I'm doing a PhD in PoliSci. My last year."

"Cool." Gorgeous _and_ smart. Jensen mentally kicks himself. He's here on a job. This is an in, if he's lucky. Odds are the guy's straight; Jensen can't afford to scare him off. "I'm in PoliSci too. Just starting a Master's."

"Awesome!" Jared beams at him. Fuck, he has dimples.This is manifestly unfair. "Hey, are you in the Democratization seminar class?"

"Uh." Jensen pulls out his phone and tries to bring up his schedule. "I think so? Is that after lunch?"

"Yeah." Jared's still grinning. "I'll see you there."

"You teaching it?"

Jared laughs. "Nope. I missed taking it my first year. They're making me do it if I wanna graduate."

Jensen frowns. "Wow. That's gotta suck."

"Kinda," Jared says, "but it shouldn't be too hard." He turns that killer smile on Jensen again. "And hey, now I know somebody in the class."

Jensen manages to swallow the words _maybe we can study together!_ because he is not actually a freshman crushing on the captain of the football team, and simply nods.

"So what have you got this morning?" Jared asks. "I'm guessing you wouldn't be ambulatory this early if you didn't have to be?"

"Introduction to Quantitative Methods," Jensen says. "The coffee should have kicked in by then."

Jared laughs. "Let's hope so."

He fiddles with the strap of his bag. "Um, do you know your way there? I'm heading in the same direction."

"Awesome," Jensen says. "I can keep my eyes shut that much longer. Just shove me when I need to change direction."

He's already memorized the campus map (plus the maintenance tunnels, main electrical and phone cable entry points, and campus security schedules) but there's no reason to tell Jared that.

Jared laughs again, and puts a hand between Jensen's shoulder blades. "No problem. This way."

He drops his hand as soon as they start walking, but its warmth lingers.

The short walk to the School of Management building is punctuated by Jared waving or calling hello to numerous students and a few professors. He's obviously a friendly and connected guy. Jensen's here to meet and scrutinize people on campus; it's practically in his job description to hang out with Jared as much as possible.

Maybe this assignment isn't going to suck after all.

"Here you are." Jared waves at the yellow brick building. "Third floor. I'll see you at seminar, okay?"

"Sure thing. Thanks."

Jared gives a last wave and grin, and takes off.

Jensen takes a deep breath. Usually, when he's heading into unknown territory, he's got a gun. And sure, he could take the entire building with his freshly sharpened pencils, but this new environment is scary in a different way.

"Onward and upward," he mutters, and enters.

The room's not hard to find. He's a few minutes early. Students are starting to trickle in: some in small groups, a few on their own. Most of them greet others as they make their way to their seats. They'll know each other from last term; he'll have to make his way into those groups and connections. He gives the occasional acknowledging nod to people walking past, but doesn't smile; being overly friendly would be odd. It's all about blending in.

The professor walks in and calls the class to order, then starts outlining the course structure and requirements.

Jensen stares down at the page in front of him, a whole new, crisp, blank notebook full of possibility, and starts doodling. He stops abruptly and flips the page over fast when he realizes he's drawing a diagram of a dismantled handgun. One girl a couple of seats over gives him a funny look, but she doesn't seem freaked or anything, so he figures it's because of his sudden flurry of movement, not because she saw it.

From then on, he mostly sleeps through that first class, which moves on to discuss office hours, grading policies, and the evils of cheating; as far as he can tell it covers very little actual content. He's good at sleeping lightly on the job, the slightest aberrant noise waking him up just enough to check it out but not so much he can't fall back to sleep immediately if, as is usually the case, it turns out to be nothing sinister. It's a fairly simple matter to adjust to the lecture hall, and he wakes up only briefly to scribble down exam dates and once to move his bag so someone can get by.

It's the first class of the term. He's got time to catch up.

"You'll have to _be_ a student," Jeff had said. "Take advantage of it. Learn something."

"Oh, come on. I don't actually have to take the tests and shit, right?" Jensen said. "Get Aldis to fake the grades."

"Nope," Jeff said. "You know the drill. It's gotta be believable. You're infiltrating. Play the damn part. You don't need to get all A's, but you gotta do your homework. I won't let you fail out of the course—if it comes to that we'll fake it. But it won't."

He'll need to pay more attention in future, if he's going to ID possible anarchists, but he figures that falling asleep in the first class probably goes a long way to establishing his credentials as a run-of-the-mill grad student.

***********************

Eating lunch in the green space near the softball field, Jensen watches students come and go. Groups and individuals mix and meet, stop, talk, mingle, move on. Eat, read, text, make out. The sun's weak but warm, and everyone seems relaxed. It's hard to believe the place is a hotbed of anarchy and potential terrorism.

Then again, it's hard to believe it's a place of erudition and higher learning, either. Appearances can be deceiving.

After lunch, he does a little scouting around. Studying the Google Earth map is one thing, but there's no substitute for walking the terrain yourself. He drops by the library, student center, and checks out the athletics facilities. Katie was right; he really doesn't stand out that much. There are a lot of baby undergrads, of course, but plenty of 'mature' students as well.

He keeps an eye on the time and makes sure he's early for his intro seminar class.

Jared's already there, chatting with the professor as they drag tables and chairs into a cooperative configuration. He waves Jensen in, introduces him to the professor, and ends up sitting beside him.

The next two hours are an eye opener for Jensen. Right from the beginning, the professor makes it clear this is _their_ class. He'll give them learning objectives and an introductory lecture, but after that, it's up to them to seek out sources, learn stuff, and bring it back to the class to share with their fellow students.

"You're not undergrads," he says. "You don't need to be spoonfed. Teach yourselves, teach each other."

Then he launches into a lecture on hegemony and consensual means of social control, and Jensen tries not to be left in the dust. He can fail every other class, what the hell, but he's not going to look like an idiot in front of Jared if he can possibly help it.

By the end of lecture, his brain feels overstuffed. If he moves his head too quickly, knowledge will slosh out of his ears. He's genuinely interested, though. When the prof breaks them up into groups of four, Jared grabs his elbow and pulls him into a group.

"So, problems with bringing globalization under democratic control," Jared says. "The US is a big one, obviously, and authoritarian regimes. What else?"

"Obviously," Jensen mutters to himself, and lets the other group members do most of the discussing. They brainstorm for the next twenty minutes, and settle on their respective research topics for next week.

"Wanna get coffee?" Jared asks, as they head for the door.

"Dumb question," Jensen grins, trying not to read too much into it.

"Addict," Jared shoots back. "C'mon, I'll show you the cafeteria."

They talk, hit it off, clash over sports teams. Jensen learns that Jared, like him, has an older brother and a younger sister.

Unlike him, Jared's really close to his family. They're down in San Antonio, but he calls them at least a couple of nights a week, and goes down for a visit whenever he can. Jensen glosses over the fact that his family live practically next door and they haven't spoken in years. Instead, he tells Jared mostly-fictional stories about his time in the military. He did actually have some military training, back when; it's served him well, and allows him to make up some reasonably believable tales.

Jared's had to give up some of his activities this year, needing to concentrate on his dissertation. He still participates in the Safe Walk campus escort program, though. He also volunteers at an animal rescue shelter.

He's too damn perfect to be real. Or gay.

If Jensen were smart, he'd slam a lid on this right now. He starts putting a bit of distance into the conversation, wrapping things up. He pays, gets up to go.

"Thanks for helping me find my bearings today," he says. "See you in class?"

"Actually," Jared says, ducking his head, "I, uh, wondered if you'd like to come along to a thing we have on Fridays? It's—well, I guess officially it's the PoliSci Grad Student Society, that's what it says on the charter, but it's a pretty informal group; some of the History and Sociology grad students come too. Mostly we get together over beer and snacks, argue philosophy and politics and models of government... I think Mike and Phil just see it as the starting point for their weekend of drunkenness, and Lara only comes to lust over Mike—but some of the others are really into it, and they're really smart. I used it as a testing ground when I was starting work on my dissertation. If the group couldn't totally shred my arguments, I figured I had a good place to start."

Jensen refrains from punching the air in triumph, instead looking politely interested. He's being handed an open invitation to the exact group he's here to infiltrate. PoliSci and Sociology students. Debates about the role of government.

"You could get to meet some of the others in the department," Jared continues. "We're pretty friendly. And did I mention there's beer? Sometimes even cookies. This week we're having a formal debate, so no pressure for you to join in, just come along and watch." He smiles. If Jensen had had any doubts about joining the group, they'd have evaporated in the face of those dimples."I admit to having an ulterior motive here: I'm the group organizer. We're always looking to expand the membership. But seriously, I think you'd enjoy it."

Well, fuck.

Jared is hot and smart and seemingly one of the nicest guys Jensen's ever met. And possibly a terrorist.

The universe obviously hates Jensen.

***********************

He gets through the next couple of days without seeing Jared. He finds his way to his classes—he's only late for one, Political Economy of Multinational Corporations, and as it turns out, when he gets there the professor's talking about the impact of foreign investment on sovereignty and domestic policy, using an example that Jensen knows inside out: it's a mission he ran for Jeff last year. Maybe academia isn't completely divorced from the real world after all. He finds the lecture enjoyable and amusing, although he refrains from correcting the professor on a couple of details.

Friday afternoon, he checks the room number Jared had scribbled on the corner of his class notes, and heads off to do some infiltrating.

"Jensen!" Jared grins widely and waves him in. "Hey man, I'm glad you could make it!"

The room's a student lounge, furnished with faded but comfortable chairs, a couple of sofas, and mismatched tables ringed with heat and condensation marks. Jared gestures to the far corner, where a couple of guys are poking through a cooler. "Beer's over there. Or do you want coffee? I could make coffee."

Jensen smiles and shakes his head. "Beer's great, thanks."

"We'll do our best to keep you awake." Jared points to a woman perched on the arm of a sofa. "Mia's opening the debate tonight. She's in the second year of her Master's, gonna convert to a PhD. If you need any help with Quantitative Methods, she's your girl. I think she actually _understands_ stats."

He drops an arm around Jensen's shoulders. "Here, let me introduce you." Before Jensen can voice any protest, he's walked them over to the sofa and given Jensen a gentle push. "Sit. I'll get you a beer."

"New member on the team?" Mia says, raising her eyebrows. "It's a bit late, we've already decided on strategy."

"Nah," Jared says, "not this week at least. Maybe he'll join in next time. Everybody, this is Jensen, he's new to the Master's program." He points in turn to the people on the sofa and in the chairs opposite, and those clustered around the cooler. "Mia, Phil, Anna, Bethie, Zach. Steve. That's Gabe and Mike over there."

"Sandy coming today?" Phil asks.

"She'd better," Jared says. "She agreed to moderate."

"Aw," Phil complains. "She's no fun."

"She doesn't let you cheat, you mean," Bethie says, and everyone laughs.

"Beer," Jared says, pointing at Jensen and backing away. "Anyone else?"

He brings a beer for Jensen, and one for Zach. Their fingers touch as he hands over the bottle and Jensen glances up. Jared's smiling down at him, the same infectious smile he gives everyone, but for a moment it feels like there's a flicker of something else.

"Sorry I'm late!"

Jared's head snaps up and he beams wider, dashing over to the door and scooping the newest arrival into a hug. She squeals as her feet leave the ground.

"Thank God you're here," says the redhead on the other end of the sofa. "I thought we'd get stuck with Mike as the judge."

"Can't," Mike calls over. "I'm arguing opposition."

"That's a relief," the redhead says. "I'm not in any shape to do push-ups today."

Jensen watches Jared lower the new arrival—who must be Sandy—to the ground. He's ducking his head down and talking to her earnestly. They're obviously close. Very good friends, at least.

"Did you bring cookies?" Jared says.

Sandy shakes her head. "I made some, but I forgot them in our room. I thought about going back to get them but I was already running late."

Jared mock pouts. "Oh well. More for me later!"

 _So they're together,_ Jensen thinks. Well. Good. Another reason not to do something stupid.

"So, welcome," the guy next to him says, breaking into his contemplation. "Jensen, was it?"

"Yeah," Jensen says, pulling his attention away from Jared. "Phil, right?"

Phil spends the next several minutes interrogating him about his knowledge of the campus sororities, refusing to believe that Jensen knows nothing and couldn't care less. Jensen learns that Phil's a History major, and there's a betting pool on how many years it'll take him to finish his PhD. Seven is currently the favored number, according to Mia.

Phil gets up to grab a beer; Mia trails after him. Jensen sneaks a quick peek towards the door, but Jared and Sandy are still talking. He turns back and the redhead on the other end of the sofa is watching him.

"Hey," she says. "I'm Anna. I'm first year PoliSci too, but I started in September."

Most people do, after all. He answers the implicit question: "Yeah. Timing didn't quite work out for me."

"What were you doing before?"

"Military," Jensen tells her. "Just got released a couple of months ago."

"Injury?"

He'd considered that. Easier in some ways. But Jeff had vetoed it, _too much bother to fake._

"No." He doesn't elaborate.

She nods. Her gaze darts to Jared and back. "Then I won't ask."

He blinks. "Am I that obvious?"

"No. Probably just to me. I'm good at that." She picks at the label of her beer bottle. "Did you like it?"

"What?"

"Being a soldier."

Jensen pauses a moment and takes a drink before replying.

"Some of it," he says. "It helps if you're on a mission you believe in."

"Were you?"

"Most of the time."

She gazes silently at him for several seconds. It's disconcerting.

"Yes," she says finally. "That's important."

Someone grabs his elbow. It's Phil.

"You wanted to know where the men's room was, right?" Phil says. "I'll show you before they get underway here."

It's a clumsy way of getting him out in the hall alone, but it's not bad for an amateur. Jensen goes with it.

"Not that one," Phil says, as soon as they're outside the door. "She looks nice, but man, she is not worth the effort. Crazy smart and a little out of touch with the real world, you know? I tried for two months solid."

"I wasn't trying to pick her up," Jensen says mildly. "Where's the men's room?"

"Down there." Phil gestures to the left. "Whatever, man. Just trying to save you some heartbreak. She's here on a full ride, spends all her time studying. Says she doesn't want a boyfriend."

"Fine by me," Jensen says, clapping Phil on the shoulder. "Neither do I. It's not a good time right now."

He heads for the washroom without waiting for Phil's reaction. He hadn't really planned to come out publicly in his first week, but fuck it. If it gets him shunned, maybe that'll make him a more appealing recruit. Terrorist groups tend to go for the loners, the isolated, the bitter and angry and depressed.

When he returns to the room, people have shoved the furniture into new configurations. His spot on the sofa is still free, though, and Phil gives him a nod and doesn't flinch away when Jensen sits back down beside him.

Jared's got the debate teams facing off in opposing rows, and he's giving a short introductory talk. He flashes Jensen a particularly bright grin when he mentions they have a few newcomers in the audience, and Jensen can't help the answering smile that tugs at his own mouth. So much for appearing isolated and depressed.

The question posed for discussion this week is fairly innocuous. Jensen sits back, listens to arguments for and against proportional representation, and watches the entire group. Nobody seems suspicious.

But Jeff is seldom wrong, and Jeff thinks this gathering contains one or more terrorists. Secessionists. Anarchists. People who actually want the U.S. to fall apart.

Jensen's a proud Texas boy, sure. But plotting against the Federal government? That's a bit much, even for someone like him who operates outside the law half the time.

It would mean civil war.

Zach finishes the last rebuttal, and everyone applauds. Sandy polls the audience and declares Mike's team the winner. The teams shake hands, and things start breaking up, people drifting into small groups of conversation.

Jensen stands and stretches. He drifts towards the front of the room, where Jared's starting to push chairs back into their original configuration.

"I need to get going," Sandy is saying to Jared as he approaches. "See you Monday? And if you're in over the weekend, don't you dare eat all the cookies."

"Cookies?" Jensen says, smiling at her.

"Oh hey, this is our newest recruit," Jared says, and Jensen does an internal double-take at Jared's choice of words. "Jensen. I lured him here with the promise of cookies. Jensen, this is Sandy, cookie baker extraordinaire."

"Sorry!" Sandy smiles at him. "I made peanut butter cornflake ones for tonight but I accidentally left them in the office."

She rises on her toes and gives Jared a quick peck on the cheek. "Don't work too hard." She turns to go, giving Jensen another dazzling smile. "Nice to meet you. Come back next week and maybe you'll get lucky!"

 _Cookies_ , Jensen reminds himself, _she's talking about cookies._ Although he's inordinately pleased that apparently Jared and Sandy aren't living together after all.

...Okay, he really needs to redirect his deductive skills. The important thing here is who's a terrorist, not who may or may not be dating Jared.

"We're heading downtown," Mike announces, coming up behind him. "Hey, Padalecki, you in? Zach's coming, and a few of the girls."

Jared's gaze catches on Jensen for a split second before sliding past him to Mike. "Not tonight, thanks. I've got some reading I wanna get done."

"Want a hand with clean up?"

"Nah. You guys get going. There's not much to do."

"I can help with it," Jensen says.

Mike throws them a lopsided salute. "Many thanks. We'll get it next week. See you then!"

"Thanks," Jared says, as the room empties out. "You don't have to, there's really not much to do."

"I don't mind." Jensen shrugs. "I'll get the bottles."

He scouts the room, collecting any empties left on the floor or between chair cushions, while Jared rearranges furniture.

"Seems like a pretty cool group," he says. "Did you start it? How long has it been around?"

"God, no, I can't take credit. I only ended up taking over the group last spring because no one else wanted to," Jared says. "This guy Graham started it up..."

He explains that Graham was a fellow grad student who had a passionate interest in philosophy, politics, and social justice. However, shortly after Christmas, Graham had developed an equally passionate interest in a nurse he'd met at a Doctors Without Borders fundraiser, and had left to build and run a clinic in The Gambia. People wanted to see the group continue, but nobody wanted to lead it, so Jared stepped up.

"Being the leader doesn't mean much." He chuckles. "I guess it looks good on my resume. All it really means ,though, is that I'm the one who books the room and tells people whose turn it is to bring snacks."

"Tough job, but someone's gotta do it," Jensen agrees.

"I organize topics and speakers too," Jared says. "On days when we have actual debates. We aren't usually that formal, but I thought it'd be a good draw for the first meeting of the new year, to get people back in the groove. We usually do a couple of debates each term. The rest of the time, it's more of a free for all; nobody really chairs things unless it gets too out of hand."

Jensen feels reassured that Jared didn't actually _start_ the group. Maybe being the leader doesn't really mean anything. The anarchists could still be using the group as a cover and a recruiting zone, but they might not have founded it, just taken advantage of something that was already there.

"You finish your assignment yet?" Jared says.

"Yup." Jensen's proud of himself for that. "Got it done yesterday."

"Oh," says Jared. "Good for you. I gotta do mine this weekend."

Jensen catches himself thinking that maybe he won't complete his before the weekend, next time.

"Okay, well," Jared says. It's clear they're done; they head for the door and Jared turns out the lights as they leave. "Thanks for coming out. Guess I'll see you in class?"

"Sure thing."

They exit the building and go their separate ways with a quick nod and wave. Jensen promptly melts into the shadows, so Jared won't see him if he looks back; it's wasted effort, however, as Jared doesn't look back. Not that there was any reason he would.

Jensen mentally slaps himself around the head yet again and goes home.

That night, he makes the weekly check-in call to Jeff via Skype. Aldis gave him something to plug in between his wifi base station and the wall jack, which he'd assured Jensen would block almost any attempts at tracing him. Jensen believes him, but he still fires up Tor before connecting.

He's occasionally accused of paranoia; he prefers to think of it as carefulness.

Jeff's pleased with his report.

"In within the first week?" He purses his lips and nods approvingly. "Good. It does sound like that group's the most likely cover. Keep an open mind, though. Pay attention to what students and professors are saying in class. Go to other campus events. Talk to as many people as possible."

"Be social, you mean," Jensen says dryly. "You know I hate that."

Jeff's laugh crackles in his speakers. "You'll survive. C'mon, you're getting a chance to go back to college life. Relive the crazy times. There must be some perks."

"Yeah," Jensen says, thinking of Jared's smile. "I guess there are. How's everyone else doing?"

"Oh, fine. Mostly." Jeff sighs. "Kane's going stir-crazy. He wanted to go to D.C. with Cassidy but I vetoed that."

Jensen chuckles. "Bull in a china shop."

"Yeah. I've got Aldis working on tracing contacts and emails. You let me know if you need him to do anything, though."

"I don't have anything solid. It probably wouldn't hurt to have him take a look at the group members, though. I'll send you a list."

"Don't send it." Jeff leans out of the camera's field of view. "Give me the names, I'll write 'em down."

"I don't have all the last names."

Jeff raises an eyebrow. "Don't worry. He'll find them."

Aldis almost certainly will, but again, it never hurts to be careful. "Okay, but I'll get them for next week; we can cross-check."

He reels off the list of names. He's a professional; he doesn't hesitate for even a moment before the last one.

 _Jared Padalecki._

***********************

Her phone rings at one a.m., twice. It stops, rings again once, then, after another pause, twice. The number's blocked, but there's only one person who'll call at this time and in this pattern. She answers it the next time it rings.

"Someone's snooping around."

She rubs her eyes. "What? Where?"

"In our system."

"Have they got anything?"

"Probably not. But it doesn't look random."

"Shit."

"You're going to have to speed up the timeline."

"I can't." She frowns. "I'm not in yet. I can't do anything until I get that access."

"So get it."

"I'm trying! It's only one of the most secure systems in the world, you know!" She makes a face at the phone, thankful there's no video link. "I'm doing my best."

"How far off are you?"

She honestly doesn't know. Maybe a month.

"A couple of weeks."

There's a pause, then a sigh. "I guess that'll have to do. We're going to move ahead with the other operation at your site in the meantime. Keep your distance."

"How am I supposed to make sure of that," she says tartly, "when you won't tell me who's involved?"

"You know it's better that way," the voice rebukes. "Just keep your head down. Do your job. You'll know when it happens."

"Fine."

"And keep me in the loop. I want to know the minute you have access."

She grits her teeth. "Fine."

"One more thing," the voice says. "We don't know yet who's snooping, or how they found us. But it's conceivable they've got someone on the ground there. I'm having Spider check it out. Be careful."

She hangs up the phone and goes back to bed, but it takes her a long time to get back to sleep.

She believes in what she's doing, but it's been easy so far; it's felt unreal. A game. Codes and numbers and computers; plans and strategies. Pieces put in motion, but the effects have been far off from her.

Someone on the ground. Someone nearby.

The dark is very dark.

***********************

Jensen finds himself falling into his new cover with unexpected ease. He's never going to love mornings, but after the first couple of weeks it gets easier to stay awake through Quantitative Methods. He spends a startling amount of time at the library—turns out all those blocks of free time in an academic schedule are necessary; who knew? He's got his assignments, reading and memorizing and shit, but somewhat to his surprise he finds within a few weeks that that's all become pretty routine. He finishes early most nights, winds up working out or playing Call of Duty for hours, and still gets decent grades on the first few assignments.

If he's honest, Jared is indirectly responsible for a lot of his academic achievement. He doesn't want to look like a moron in seminar class _or_ in the discussion group.

After the second seminar class, Jared asks if he wants to go for coffee again. The third time, Jensen asks, and from then on it's assumed. They hang out on a couple of other occasions, in larger groups. Phil has a barbeque one Saturday and invites them both. Mike organizes a laser tag event. Jensen thinks about declining that one, worried that in the heat of the moment his competitive instinct might override common sense and give him away, but reasons that ex-military is a good enough explanation for his abilities. He wins—might have been unusual not to—but he takes his time and keeps his shots this side of believable. Mostly he has a great time watching Jared chase around, hyped up on adrenaline and even sweatier than usual.

Jared's actually pretty good. Mike's team would have been sunk without him and Bethie. Bethie's sneaky; she's not an aggressive shooter, but she's stealthy and when she has time to line up a shot, she rarely misses. Jensen takes her out right at the end. She isn't upset at all, just laughs and throws her arms around his neck in an exuberant hug. "I can't believe I lasted that long!"

They don't get to hang out as much as Jensen would like, but it's probably for the best, given that he's here on an actual _job._ Besides, Jared's pretty busy, got a dissertation to write.

"Come by the office after class tomorrow?" Jared says one day, scribbling the room number on a scrap of paper. "I've got a couple of books you might be interested in."

Jensen finds the office at the end of a long hall. The door has a carefully lettered sign on red paper saying "IS THE COFFEE MAKER OFF??? Remember when you nearly burned the place down!"

There are noises coming from beyond the half-closed door. Positively orgasmic noises. He nearly turns around and leaves, but he wasn't being stealthy about his approach. "Jensen? That you?"

He pushes the door open. "Yeah."

Jared is sprawled in a chair, blissful and dopey expression on his face. Sandy's standing behind him, giving him a shoulder massage.

"She is the _best_ at this," Jared sighs happily. "I advise being really nice to her."

Sandy laughs. "Nah, you're just easy to please."

"Mmmph." Jared drops his chin on his chest and emits a happy groan as Sandy digs her knuckles into his right trapezius.

Great. Now Jensen can add an audio track to his nightly jerk-off fantasies.

"On the corner of my desk." Jared waves in its general direction. "When you were talking about citizen groups the other day, I remembered I had this book on the decline of political parties and the rise of citizen movements. Figured you might like to read it."

"Thanks."

"There you go," Sandy says, smoothing her hands out along Jared's shoulders and down his arms. "All better."

Jared stands, rolling his neck. "Seriously. You are the best."

"I've got to get back to work." Sandy looks apologetically at Jensen. "Sorry. I have a ton of assignments to grade."

"No problem," Jensen says. "I should get going."

"Are you walking?" Jared starts gathering papers together on his desk. "I'm heading out as well."

"Got my car," Jensen says. "Want a lift?"

"Yeah." Jared smiles at him. "That'd be great."

***********************

Jensen's car turns out to be a big black behemoth of a truck. There's a teeny-tiny sigil on the back indicating...

"Hybrid?"

"Biofuel," Jensen says, defensively.

"Cool," Jared grins.

The hint of belligerence in Jensen's stance vanishes instantly. "Glad you think so."

"Who wouldn't?" Jared's honestly bewildered.

Jensen blinks at him. "We're in Texas. The state was practically founded on oil. I've had people I don't even know come up and tell me it's unpatriotic to drive this thing."

Jared snorts. "Yeah, well. I love Texas and all, but I'd like there to be a Texas for my kids to love." He takes in Jensen's raised eyebrows and waves his hands frantically. "I mean, if I ever have any."

"You should, man. You'd be an awesome dad. And you and Sandy would have gorgeous kids."

Jared laughs at that. "Me and Sandy? Hey. No. Did you think...? Man, no. We're just friends."

"Really?" Jensen says blankly.

"Really," Jared confirms. "She's great but she's not my type."

He slants Jensen a quick glance as he says it.

"So, a bunch of us are going out Friday to celebrate the end of mid-terms." He knows Jensen's been stressing about the tests. He also knows Jensen's going to ace them; he's smarter than he gives himself credit for.

"After discussion group?" Jensen asks, turning right out of the parking lot.

"There won't be discussion group that day. We'll meet up downtown." The sun's low and in his eyes; Jared flips the sun visor down. "You'll come?"

"Wouldn't miss it." They're approaching a set of lights; Jensen signals and pulls into the left lane. "Uh, where am I going?"

"The right way, actually," Jared frowns. "That was lucky. Sorry, I forgot I needed to give you directions. Turn left here."

The hybrid corners surprisingly well. Jensen denies being a Formula One driver in a previous life. Jared laughs and claims not to believe him.

***********************

Since Jensen doesn't have anywhere to be Friday afternoon, he sets up a physical meeting with Jeff and the team. It's a good time to check in: Katie's back from Washington, and Aldis has apparently made a breakthrough.

He takes the usual precautions to make sure he isn't followed, and when he walks into headquarters, the usual safe feeling envelops him. He's gone on a couple of long assignments before and coming back to headquarters always feels like coming home.

He supposes it's the closest thing he's got to home now, really. The house he grew up in hasn't been home for a long time. His apartment isn't home. Even the place he shares with Chris isn't home. It's where he keeps his stuff and where he sleeps when he's not on assignment elsewhere, but it's just practical. He moves at least every couple of years; there's no emotional tie to this place any more than there was the last. Headquarters, on the other hand, is the same as it's been since he joined, and most of the people who care about him hang out there.

"You're really going for the student look, huh?" Aldis looks askance at his band T-shirt.

"Could be worse," Jensen says. "I could grow my hair long."

"Maybe in liberal arts," Aldis snorts. "PoliSci, I'm surprised they're not making you wear a three piece suit."

"This is grad school," Katie says. "Appearance doesn't matter."

"Grades do, though." Jensen gives Aldis a smug grin. "Please note that you have not had to fake _any_ of mine yet."

"I did notice that." Aldis leans in and eyes Jensen closely. "I've come to the conclusion that you're Jensen's smart clone. Or an alien replacement. Which might explain the change in fashion sense."

"Enough," Jeff says. "Aldis, how about you bring us up to speed?"

"Right," Aldis says, and spins to face the screen. "I'm not gonna bother telling you how complicated this was, because you wouldn't appreciate it anyway, but basically I have pulled off a miracle and located the needle you were looking for in that haystack we call Google Mail."

He clicks and brings up an email that looks like strings of random numbers.

"I located this email..."

He hits another button, and the numbers morph into words.

"...and decrypted it."

They all scan the text as Jeff summarizes it.

"This is their next move. They're trying to get into government computers and plant information to make it appear the federal government is engaged in various underhanded manipulations to strip states of their rights. It'll look like the government's centralizing control of things like health and education: trying to get a stranglehold on things that states typically have local control over."

Jeff sits on the edge of his desk. "They're hoping to provoke public outrage that'll further bolster the secessionist agenda. Anti-government activists will be all over that, and even moderates are likely to swing to the defence of the states."

"If they get that kind of access to government computers, they could do a lot more than that." Katie bites her lip. "Are you able to trace their hackers from this email?"

"Not yet," says Aldis, "but I'll keep trying. I want to get my own access into the system too. Then maybe I'll stand half a chance of counteracting whatever they try next."

"Keep working on it," Jeff says. "Will you be able to recognize planted files?"

Aldis waggles his head side to side. "Maybe. The trouble's knowing where to look. Any given file, I can tell you if it's the real deal or Astroturf. But there's a million files in there. It's not like I'm gonna be scanning them all every day, so they put one in, it's got a good chance of slipping past me. Plus, if I were them, I'd put them in a highly classified area—it'd be more believable that way, more PR damage—and I'll need better access to get at that. It's gonna take ridiculous luck, or some inside information, to catch things before they do any damage."

"Any news on the inside?" Jeff turns to Jensen. So does everyone else.

"Not much," Jensen admits.

In his weekly updates to Jeff, he describes any new people he's met, what's being talked about in the group, who's been hanging around with whom. He's passed on the names of everyone affiliated with the group so far, both the regulars and those who dropped in occasionally, and within twenty-four hours Aldis had dug up nearly everything there was to know about them.

He'd been both eager and reluctant to hear what Aldis had to say about Jared, and found himself making mental notes of which supermarket Jared shopped at and where he usually went running. He'd rebuked himself for being stupid, and thanked his lucky stars Jeff or Chris hadn't picked up on anything. At least, he'd been pretty sure they hadn't, until he walked in today and Chris asked him how Mr. Tall, Dark and Sexy was doing with his dissertation.

"I might be able to help you out a little," Aldis says. "Maybe narrow the search. I've been working on profiling our suspects."

Jensen frowns. "I thought pretty much the entire group fit your specs?"

"If you're doing it the old-fashioned way." Aldis's expression makes clear what he thinks of that. "I've refined the algorithm to take advantage of additional factors and weighted logic. I tested it on several past scenarios to calibrate it, and then I ran it twenty times with varied guess input. One name keeps coming up with very high probability."

His glance keeps flipping from Jeff to Chris; he doesn't meet Jensen's eyes.

Jensen is starting to get a bad feeling about this.

Aldis starts ticking off on his fingers. "Terrorists are usually young, socially alienated, and single. They might have a friend or a relative in the group. We know we're looking at someone who's pissed at the government. It might be over something personal, rather than ideological. Evidence suggests he's..."

"Do we know it's a he?" Jensen interrupts.

Aldis inclines his head in Jensen's direction, but still doesn't look directly at him. "Ninety-nine point two percent probability. He's in his late twenties, knows his way around the city. Knows his way around people. Not military, but has some knowledge: might have a relative in the Army, _or_ ," Aldis pauses, "has studied history, military thinking and social science. Well-read."

Jensen grits his teeth. He's perfectly aware of where Aldis is going.

"He's good with computers, and a lot better than most at covering his tracks, but I've managed to get one or two hits on his access. He's definitely used wifi points on or around campus."

"Cut the dramatic build-up," Jensen snaps. "It's not Jared." For one thing, social alienation and Jared Padalecki are mutually exclusive concepts.

Jeff sighs. "Listen, Jensen..."

"No, you listen," Jensen snaps. "I've listened to enough of this computer babble over the last few years to know Aldis could be talking bullshit. The algorithm gives you a probability. And it's all based on what he put in to it. You can't account for things like...like emotion or altruism or...or gut instinct, okay?"

He stops, aware he's sounding like an idiot.

"Actually, I can..." Aldis starts.

"Not the point," Jeff says gently. "Jensen, this guy seems like a nice guy. Maybe he's the real deal. But we have to at least consider the possibility that he's involved."

"I know," Jensen mutters. "I did."

"I know you did." Jeff sighs. "I need you not to lose sight of that. You made friends with him to learn more about him. I know you like him, and that makes it hard to stay objective. But you have to."

Jensen nods.

"We're going out tonight."

"You and Jared?" Katie raises an eyebrow.

"All of us," Jensen snaps. "The gang. They're going drinking. People'll be more unguarded and relaxed. I'll make the rounds, talk to everyone, but," he glares at Jeff, "I'll try and lead Jared a little more. See what I can get."

"Great." Jeff rests a hand on his shoulder and Jensen thinks he's going to say something further, but he just pats his shoulder a couple of times before standing and leaving the room.

There's a pause before Katie makes an effort to brighten the mood. "Have fun tonight!"

"Going drinking on a Friday night," Aldis says. "Wish I got your kind of assignment."

"You couldn't handle his kind of assignment." Katie shoots him with a finger-gun. "It takes someone with special skills. Like a complete lack of fear. Or dress sense."

"Why do I hang around with you guys again?"

***********************

The place fills up early on Fridays. It's easy to find an inconspicuous spot and keep watch. The man known to some as Spider doesn't worry about the press of people in the club—the more the better, in terms of concealment. It's never going to be hard to spot his target.

Jared shows up at the club surprisingly early. He's hardly come out at all this year, and on the rare occasions that girl of his drags him along, he usually arrives later and leaves after only an hour.

Spider smirks. Jared's invited that little crush of his along tonight. Probably wants to make sure the guy doesn't show up before he does, and take off if he doesn't see Jared—or hook up with someone else.

He reads the signs, and heads for the bar just before Jared does.

Jared shoulders up next to him and orders his usual beer plus an assortment of drinks for the others at his table. It's very simple, in the crowd, to pass the palm of his hand over Jared's glass, especially when Jared turns away to smile at the girl on the other side of him.

Jared plays it well, but come on. Nobody's that nice. It's a great public personality, but it's a little over the top. The guy's been less visible this year, occupied with something—he _says_ it's writing a dissertation—ever since he took an interest in their group.

Someone's on the ground. Spider intends to prove it's Jared.

He watches from his vantage point until Jared has downed the last of his beer. Someone else gestures to the bar and spreads their hands, looking around the table, clearly offering to get the next round. Damn. He needs Jared to get up.

...There. Good. Jared's pushing back his chair too. Looks like the diuretic's kicking in.

Jared's buddy moves toward the bar, but Jared heads for the men's room. Spider follows.

Bathroom etiquette works to his advantage: Jared never so much as glances at him as they walk in. Luck's favoring him too; there are a couple of other guys there, but they're gone by the time Jared finishes pissing. He lets Jared wash his hands before stepping up beside him and nailing him in the solar plexus.

Jared folds, breath whooshing out and muscles locking up. Good. He's not much of a fighter, and Jared's got the advantage in both height and weight. He's got tactical drugs in his inside pocket—more of the stuff he's already given him, plus a couple of extra options—but he'd rather not use more than he has to.

Do it cleanly. In and out without a sound or trace. The best way not to get caught is never to let them know there's anyone to catch in the first place.

He slings Jared's arm over his shoulder and hauls him towards the door. Jared's sneakers drag and squeak on the tile as he mostly stumbles over his own feet.

Another guy pushes past them as he manhandles Jared out the door; thankfully it's not one of Jared's friends. Jared's trying to say something but his diaphragm's still locked up, not allowing him to get a proper breath. It's easy to dig an elbow into his side, eliciting a groan. Spider keeps his face turned away from the guy and says to Jared, "C'mon, buddy. Time to get you home."

"Overdid it, huh?" the guy says, and helpfully holds the door for them.

He veers left, until the door swings closed behind them, at which point he reverses abruptly and heads down the hall to the supply closet.

Once they're in, door safely shut, he releases Jared and pats him warmly on the back. He straightens his jacket and smiles at him. _Trust me_ , the smile says, _everything's fine._

"What are we doing here?" Jared blinks around.

"Hey, sit down," he says, infusing camaraderie into every syllable. Jared should be highly suggestible right now. "You were feeling a little rough. Thought we should take a break."

He puts a hand on Jared's shoulder, and gently but firmly guides him down to sit on a crate. Jared lets his head flop back against the wall and watches him with mild curiosity. He turns away briefly to wedge a broom handle across the door, then leans his back against the door, posture relaxed and open.

"Do I know you?" Jared mumbles.

"Course you do, buddy." He winks at him. "I'm helping you track them down. Remember?"

Jared screws up his face. "Track who down?"

"The separatists."

Jared stares blankly.

"Anarchists."

Jared squints and tilts his head. His hair falls in his eyes and he shakes his head. His coordination's still off by a mile, and that little movement starts him falling to the right, tipping off his crate. It's mostly luck that he gets one hand out, stops himself before breaking his nose against the cement floor.

"The terrorists, Jared." He lets urgency bleed into his tone. "You're after them. I'm here to help you but you have to tell me what you know."

Jared pushes himself back upright. "This is a good movie." He fucking _giggles._ "Does it have Lucy Liu in it?"

"No," he snaps. Jared's face falls.

He shoves down his annoyance, trying not to telegraph it in his body language. Deep breath. Relax the shoulders. Steady, trustworthy voice. "You know it's not a movie, Jared. It's all real. You're doing us proud, aren't you, keeping the secret? But you don't have to hide from me. I'm on your side. They sent me to help you."

"I'm _in_ the movie?" Jared perks up. "Do I get to meet Lucy?"

He resists the temptation to bang his head against the wall and tries another line of attack.

Twenty minutes and his best drug later, he gives into temptation and punches the wall.

Jared isn't an agent. He isn't after the separatists. He has no idea they exist. He really is just another head-in-the-clouds grad student. Arguing and writing and navel-gazing in his ivory tower, not a clue what's coming.

He grits his teeth in frustration. Someone's here, he knowsit. Someone's after him and the best ally he's ever recruited, and he has no idea how close they've gotten or who the fuck they are. Tonight was supposed to be paydirt and instead he's got squat.

"Needed a little break from the dancing," he suggests to Jared, and steers him down the hallway, staying behind him out of his line of sight. Jared'll forget him the minute he's gone.

"You're just here for a good time," he murmurs in Jared's ear, and pushes him out into the swirling crowd. He watches long enough to make sure that Jared's heading to the dance floor, and then slides out the back door.

***********************

Jensen's still simmering when he gets to the club.

Jeff's right, of course he's right. It's why Jensen's so angry at himself. He knows it's a bad idea to trust Jared, and it's a completely fucking idiotic idea to even consider getting involved with Jared. Quite apart from the fact that Jared isn't interested.

Sex as a means to an end is all very well. Jensen's enjoyed the occasional seduction in pursuit of a job—it's often more effective than threats or stealth, and far more pleasurable—but the key is never getting emotionally involved. And he's known from the minute he first ran into Jared that that was a near impossibility here. Even if he _could_ seduce Jared, throwing sex into the mix between them would be a damn fool thing to do.

He sees Jared the minute he walks in.

Jared's out on the dance floor, flailing madly, towering over his dance partner. She puts a hand on his arm and he leans down to let her yell something in his ear. Whatever it is makes him laugh.

Jensen can't hear it, of course, over the pulse of the music, but he knows that laugh.

He looks around and sees a couple of other people he recognizes. Phil's at the bar, draped over a redhead; judging from the way he's waving his hands he's attempting to describe the topology of the Grand Canyon, or possibly a kangaroo birth. Mia's seated against one wall, sipping something neon green and eyeing the dancers with amusement.

His eyes, and his feet, are drawn inexorably back to Jared.

Jensen doesn't dance. Yet here he is, on the dance floor.

"Jensen!" Jared yells, spotting him. "Dude! I wasn't sure you were gonna come. This is awesome!"

Jared's erstwhile dance partner says something else and points over to the bar. Jared nods, eyes never leaving Jensen. He moves into Jensen's space—very much into Jensen's space, and dampens the intensity of his dancing somewhat.

"You look like you're having a good time," Jensen hollers. They're right up by one of the speakers, it's almost impossible to hear.

"Yeah!" Jared shouts back. "I haven't been out in forever, man! Fuck, I needed this."

The lights are patterning Jared's hair in kaleidoscope hues, shifting like his eyes. He throws his head back and grins wild and white, and Jensen's eyes can't leave the long lines of his neck and collarbone. A bead of sweat pools in the hollow of his throat and Jensen barely stops the urge to lean in and lick it.

The beat shifts, slows slightly, deep bass vibrating through everything: the floor, their feet, their skulls. Their hips. Jared is moving closer, pushed into Jensen by the surging of the crowd. The few inches of height Jared has on him have never been so obvious, as Jared grips Jensen's hips and pulls him in snug, plastering their bodies together.

Jensen's ears are buzzing,

"This place about to blow...oh oh oh..."

Jared's singing along, just enough off-key to make it truly horrible, or it would be if Jensen were actually focusing on the music, instead of watching Jared's tongue and lips shape words.

"This place about to blow..."

Jared's head tips forward. He's no longer singing; he speaks directly into Jensen's ear.

"Me too."

Jensen would defy anyone not to be distracted by the feel of Jared Padalecki's lips on their ear, the side of their face. For a moment, he doesn't really process the words.

"Me too, Jen." Jared's voice is deep and wrecked, and he's breathing fast. "Fuck, you're so fucking hot. Wanted this. Wanted you. Gotta get off this fucking dance floor, Jen, or I'm gonna blow right here in my jeans."

Jensen literally gasps at that, sucks in a huge gulp of air.

Jared's switched up the pace again, grinding harder and faster against him, and Jensen can feel how fucking _huge_ and hard Jared's cock is, shoving up against his thigh and his own throbbing erection.

Jared pulls back and stares straight into Jensen's eyes, still rutting frantically into Jensen. His sweaty bangs are falling in his face, his mouth is open on gasps of pleasure. He looks desperate and delicious, open and so damn eager it breaks something in Jensen. His eyes are almost black, the shifting colors eaten up by arousal.

"Wanna, gonna," Jared says, "not here, c'mon," and he's got an arm round Jensen's waist, pulling him to the edge of the dance floor and down the narrow hallway to the john.

The floor's sticky underfoot and there's probably guys at the urinals watching Jared manhandle Jensen into a stall but Jensen can't give a damn about that when Jared's tearing his jeans open and wrapping a massive paw around his aching dick.

He can't give a damn about anything but this, right here, Jared's hands and mouth on him. Jared might be an anarchist, he might be straight, he might kick Jensen's ass in the morning, but right now he feels and smells and tastes like everything Jensen's ever wanted and Jensen is not strong enough to back away.

Jared's muttering sweet filth in his ear, and he's jerking Jensen's dick a little too hard and fast. It's exactly what Jensen needs right now; he groans, shoving his hips forward, arching into Jared's grip. Jared's riding his thigh, licking his neck, and then he bites down on Jensen's earlobe and that's it. Jensen's coming unstoppably, hard and blind and helpless, surrounded by Jared.

His legs threaten to give out; it's only Jared's weight pinning him against the side of the stall that keeps him upright as he slowly comes back to himself. He's dizzy, head spinning from alcohol and oxygen deprivation and the most intense orgasm he's had since, fuck, possibly ever, but he's with it enough to lock his knees and shove a hand down between their bodies. He was raised that way.

Well, his momma never actually discussed the etiquette of sex in a nightclub bathroom, but the point is, he's enough of a gentleman to reciprocate.

Jared is leaning heavily against him, panting open-mouthed and wet against his neck. He knocks Jared's hand out of the way and is struggling with Jared's zipper when he realizes the denim around it is damp. Soaked, even. Sodden with come, and _holy fuck_ Jared, apparently-not-so-straight-Jared, just came in his pants from giving Jensen a fucking handjob.

He takes a moment to process the mind-blowing nature of this, then wipes and buttons himself up as best as possible. Jared is floppy and mumbly against him. He has to shove Jared backwards to maneuver the stall door open around them.

The minute the door's open, he knows it's bad news. There are four guys lounging against the row of sinks on the far wall.

He looks the middle one straight in the eye, gives a terse nod of his head, and looks away. Trying to signal _I don't want any trouble_ , but also, _leave us alone and nobody gets hurt._

He knows it's not going to work the moment Jared steps out of the stall behind him. Their expressions turn hungry, and there's an ugly murmur. The middle guy shoves off the sinks and ambles towards them.

Jensen tries never to create unnecessary disturbance when he's on assignment, it can gather unwanted attention. Usually he'd keep moving for the door, but he's got Jared to consider. Jared, who's drunk and post-orgasmic and apparently oblivious to the change in atmosphere.

"Where you think you're goin', _fag?_ " the lead guy sneers, and his buddies rumble agreement and menace.

Jared staggers up beside him, makes a goofy noise, and rests his chin on Jensen's shoulder. One of the men makes a gagging sound.

Clearly Jared is going to be no help at all.

Jensen pushes Jared behind him. He can hear the slither of fabric as Jared slides down the wall, folding up into a pile of long limbs, but he ignores it for now, focusing his senses on the four men who have them cornered. His right hand curls into a fist.

"Look, he's gonna show us his little fag moves," one of them slurs, and Jensen leaps into action.

The leader is felled instantly by a solid blow to the jaw plus a knee to the gut, and Jensen shoves him backwards to crash into one of the others. The remaining two come at him hard, one from each side; he takes the one on the left first, blocking the guy's wild swing with his left forearm and breaking his collarbone with the edge of his right hand. The guy yells in pain and shock and automatically curls forward slightly; Jensen kicks him in the groin and brings an elbow down hard on the back of his head, and that's that.

The guy behind him meanwhile lands a punch to Jensen's kidney, but Jensen's already spinning back, avoiding the kick aimed at his knee. He grabs the man's foot and flips him; there's an echoing smack as skull meets tile.

The leader's still winded, gasping in a heap, but his buddy's pushed him off and recovered his balance, and now throws himself at Jensen with a yell. Both hands are going for his throat.

Jensen suppresses an eyeroll—fucking rookie move—sidesteps, and as the guy crashes against the wall beside him he locks him in place with an arm behind his neck and grabs the guy's arm, twisting it up behind his back.

The guy fights to break his hold, rather predictably rearing back. Jensen releases the pressure on the back of his neck enough that the man's head comes back several inches, and then drives the heel of his hand straight forward, hard and fast against the back of the skull. The man's head slams into the wall and he crumples in Jensen's grip.

Jensen drops him—taking care not to drop him on Jared—kicks him hard in the stomach to be sure, and whirls back to check on the leader. The whole thing's taken maybe thirty seconds.

The leader's conscious, but he's groaning and not making any move to get up. Jensen steps over the bodies of his douchebag buddies and leans down slightly, meeting and holdling his gaze.

"You like those moves?" he says softly. "Didn't even use my knife."

He gestures toward his left boot, and watches the man's eyes widen.

"We'll be leaving now," he says. "Any trouble comes from this, I will find you, and I will gut you."

Shit, Chris would laugh his head off if he heard that.

Apparently he's convincing, though, because the guy moans and clenches his eyes shut, shaking his head.

Jensen sighs and turns back to Jared, who appears to be only marginally more conscious than Jensen's playmates.

"You were awesome," Jared slurs as Jensen hauls him to his feet. "You gotta teach me that. I mean, I can fight, but that. That was _awesome._ "

"Maybe when you're sober, buddy." Jensen steadies him with a hand on each shoulder, gives him a little shake and releases him. "C'mon. Gotta get you home."

"Home sucks," Jared says mulishly. "Wanna dance."

He moves in toward Jensen again, placing his hands on Jensen's hips, and sways in place. "C'mon, Jen. Dance with me."

Jensen's answering laugh cuts off short as Jared's knees buckle. He barely manages to get his arms under Jared's, and staggers under the weight as Jared flops forward onto him.

"Shit, man," he says, shaking Jared gently. "How much have you had to drink?"

"Dunno," Jared mumbles. "Some. 'S a good party." He straightens up again, pats Jensen sloppily on the head and steps back. "Don' go t'enough parties. Feels funny."

Jensen frowns and looks more closely at Jared. His pupils are still massively dilated.

An icy shock of adrenaline pours through Jensen's system. Jared's pupils weren't dilated from arousal—well, okay, arousal had definitely been in the mix, given all the dirty talk and rubbing and coming, but it wasn't just arousal. Wasn't just Jensendoing it to him. He's fucking drugged.

And Jensen hadn't noticed. Jensen had...

He gets a grip. Okay, it's not like he raped Jared. He's not gonna beat himself up over it, because Jared had been doing all the leading, it was all Jensen could do to keep up with the ride, but the fact remains that he's had sex with Jared while Jared was under the influence of god knows what, which is hardly an auspicious start to their...

Christ. He has a sudden urge to smack his head against the wall. This isn't a goddamn relationship, and given the events of tonight, it's not gonna be. Plus, Jared is still a fucking _suspect._

Not that he looks like he could plot his way out of a paper bag right now. Jared's eyelids have fallen shut again and he's swaying. Damn it, he's practically asleep on his feet.

"Jesus," Jensen mutters, slinging Jared's arm over his shoulders. "Let's get you out of here."

Hailing a taxi is relatively easy; it's early yet. Folding Jared's long limbs into the back is more complicated. Jensen gives the driver his own address. Jared shouldn't be left alone.

By the time the vehicle pulls up outside Jensen's building, Jared is snoring open-mouthed against Jensen's neck. Jensen pays the driver before shaking Jared and shoving him out the curbside door.

Jared manages to stay on his feet as they weave up the walk, but he seems to have decided that Jensen is his own personal pillow or something because he's draped over Jensen's back, drooling into his hair for fuck's sake, as Jensen unlocks his door and elbows it open.

He shoves Jared through and props him against the wall, supporting him with one hand as he kicks his shoes off and considers what to do next. He doesn't have a spare room, and Jared's gonna feel bad enough in the morning as it is without being folded in half on the couch.

He sighs and steers Jared down the hall to his room. Jared pretty much faceplants on the bed the instant Jensen lets go. He pulls off Jared's sneakers and wedges the pillow under his head in such a way that he's sure Jared isn't going to suffocate.

He briefly debates trying to remove Jared's jeans—they're sticky now; they'll be painfully unpleasant when he wakes up—but Jared makes a complaining noise and wriggles away when Jensen tries to roll him over, and he abandons the attempt.

He's not sure he wants to know what Jared looks like half-naked in his bed, anyway. Jared was _drugged._ He was drugged and horny and Jensen was there and this probably won't mean a damn thing. No point tormenting himself with something he can't have.

And maybe if the universe gets flipped on its head and something goes right in Jensen's love life for a change, there should be lots of opportunity to find out what naked Jared looks like in his bed.

Musing about that nicely counteracts the uncomfortableness of the sofa, and he falls asleep.

***********************

Things do not get flipped on their head.

Jensen jerks awake to the noise of water running. He's on the sofa, there's a horrible crick in his neck, and Jared is presumably in his shower.

He's making scrambled eggs when Jared walks into the kitchen wearing a towel and one of Jensen's T-shirts. Jensen tries hard not to drool or swallow his tongue.

"Hey," Jared says. "So, um. I'm guessing I got pretty messed up last night."

Jensen nods. "Yeah."

"I mean, really." Jared pushes his free hand through his hair; the other's gripping the towel. "I must have been in bad shape if you didn't just drop me off at my place."

"You were kinda out of it." Jensen shrugs and pokes at the eggs.

"I don't remember a thing."

Jensen had figured: it's the way his universe works. Still depressing to hear it confirmed, though.

"I don't usually drink that much." Jared frowns. "I can't even remember drinking. I have never gotten this fucked up before, man. I mean, I don't remember getting there. I don't remember leaving my _office._ I must have gone home and gotten changed, because I wasn't wearing what I had on for class. But it's just... gone."

The eggs are done. Jensen removes the pan from the heat.

"Thanks for looking out for me."

"No problem." Jensen bites his lip. "Do you wanna borrow some clean clothes?"

He's going to have to tell Jared at least some of the story. He'd rather be dealing with a clothed Jared.

"Yeah." Jared's voice is steady, although a faint blush sneaks up the back of his neck. "Sorry for stealing your shirt. My stuff, uh, smells like a bar."

"I can imagine." The lie makes Jensen's decision easy. Jared probably thinks he got off with a girl, or maybe jerked off before passing out. Jensen's not gonna mess things up between them by telling him a truth he doesn't remember and didn't mean.

He finds Jared a pair of sweatpants; they're a little short, but they do the job. They eat their eggs in silence, but it's a friendly silence.

"I'll drive you home," Jensen says, gathering the plates and stacking them in the sink.

"I don't wanna put you out any further." Jared brings the coffee cups over. "I can walk."

"Not a problem." Jensen shrugs. "I didn't really have plans. Gotta get out and do a grocery run anyway. And..." He frowns and trails off. Jared had better know what happened— _some_ of what happened—in case there are after effects.

"And?"

"I think you should take it easy. I don't think you drank too much last night."

Jared raises his eyebrows. "Dude. I really, really did."

Jensen shakes his head. "I don't think that was all alcohol. I think somebody slipped you something."

Jared wrinkles up his forehead in puzzlement. "You mean, like, a roofie?"

"I dunno. Something. You were..." _amazing_ "...really out of it, and your pupils were funny. Plus, not remembering part of the night is one thing, but to forget half your afternoon? That's odd."

Jared blinks. "I guess. But why would someone do that?" He blushes. "I'm not exactly the usual date rape candidate."

"Still got your wallet?" Jensen shrugs, fighting down his own blush. "Dunno. Maybe you got someone else's drink by accident."

It's a good question, though. Did someone give it to Jared on purpose? And the memory loss is more intense than any date-rape drug Jensen's heard of before. What is it, and who's making it?

Maybe Jared _is_ involved in something shady after all.

Or—the thought sluices through him like ice water—maybe someone's after him and got Jared instead.

He dismisses the thought. That doesn't make sense: Jared was drugged before Jensen arrived at the club. The drink couldn't have been meant for him.

"Maybe." Jared frowns. "Wow. So I guess I _really_ owe you for helping me out."

"Any time." Jensen says. "It wasn't so bad."

***********************

She's sitting at her usual place in the café, early afternoon sun warming her back. Her coffee's long gone and she's forgotten her sandwich, half-eaten beside her, as she works.

Her hands flit over the tablet, tapping and touching. Anyone watching probably assumes she's playing Angry Birds, tongue-tip rolled between her teeth in concentration.

There's a lot more at stake though. One of these days, the explosions will be real. She doesn't like to think too hard about that part yet. Still, _you can't make an omelet without breaking some eggs_ , as her grandmother used to say.

Each day she gets a little farther. Another door, another trap, another layer. She's working her way in, bit by bit, worm boring to the heart of the apple. Her grandmother had other sayings too, about patience, and she repeats those to herself like a mantra when she gets frustrated. Time is important, things are starting to move, but the one thing she cannot afford is detection. _The best way not to get caught is never to let them know there's anyone to catch in the first place._

It sort of is like Angry Birds, in that each small victory leads to another challenge. And they're getting harder. The last one took her six days.

So when she cracks yet another layer of their security, slides her way on in, she smiles in satisfaction and looks away, savoring it for a moment. She stretches her shoulders, reaches for the pen and notebook beside her and ticks off the strategy that worked.

Her sandwich is a little soggy, having sat half-eaten and forgotten, but she's suddenly ravenous. She takes a big bite, puts it back on the plate, and licks her fingers before looking back to the screen.

At which point she nearly spits tunafish all over it. She's in.

All the way in.

She gulps her half-chewed mouthful and stares. The landscape is huge. Unfamiliar but structured code, layers of access climbing and stretching out, and it's all hers. Ripe for exploration, understanding—and adjustment.

She doesn't mean to but she lets out a startled cry of delight.

She claps a hand over her mouth promptly, looking around. A few people are staring in dispproval or curiosity. She shrugs at them, widens her eyes and smiles bashfully.

"He asked me out!" she squeaks, clutching the tablet to her chest.

Whatever works.

As soon as the attention settles down, she goes back, has a look around, and begins planning. She'll want to test things out first. Make a few tiny adjustments. If they work... well, then the real work can begin.

***********************

Jensen calls Jared a couple of times over the weekend, but Jared doesn't pick up.

He swings by Jared's building Saturday evening and spends a little time observing. Lights go on and off in Jared's apartment, so at least he hasn't been kidnapped or something.

He thinks about buzzing up, but he doesn't. Instead, he calls Jeff.

He gives an abridged version of events, leaving out crucial bits that Jared doesn't remember, Jeff doesn't need to know, and Jensen has seared into his brain and will be using as jerk-off material for the next ten years. He sticks to Jared being drugged and the fight in the club. It occurred to him, after, that gay-bashing might have been a convenient cover for a serious attempt on Jared. Or him—although if they'd been sent after him, clearly somebody hadn't done their homework.

"Did you recognize them?" Jeff asks.

"No. They might have just been drunks spoiling for a fight."

"You said he doesn't remember anything?"

"Nothing," Jensen confirms. "From at least mid-afternoon. Ever heard of that?"

"Not specifically," Jeff says. "I'll ask around."

"Can you get Aldis to check on him? He's not answering his phone."

"You think he ran?"

"No." Jensen frowns; he hadn't even considered that possibility. "He's at his place. Make sure he's okay, though? I don't know what he was given."

"Stalker," Jeff teases, but he agrees.

Aldis sends back news that Jared is fine, just sleeping a lot, but he'd ordered pizza earlier in the day and he's playing Portal 2 a lot. Very badly.

***********************

Jared's not in seminar class on Tuesday.

Jensen phones that evening, but Jared still doesn't pick up.

Maybe Jared remembered something. Maybe he's pissed.

He gets a text an hour later saying _sorry dude, still kinda tired. i'm ok tho, be back in a couple of days. let me know what i missed in class._

He talks to Sandy when he runs into her at the campus café and learns that Jared took about forty-eight hours to fully recover. He now has his short-term memory back, but was having trouble with it for most of the weekend.

That settles it: this was definitely not your usual roofie. Those don't affect memory formation for days afterwards.

"He's freaking out about his dissertation," Sandy worries. "He lost a whole weekend of potential writing time, and he's stuck on a particular argument."

"Maybe he should bring it to the discussion group?" Jensen suggests. "He said that helped when he was putting ideas together in the first place."

"Great minds think alike." She smiles. "I told him that, but he's been feeling kind of anti-social. Hopefully he'll be good by Friday, but I'll drag him along one way or the other."

Jensen really hopes the dissertation is all Jared's freaking out over. Sandy doesn't act weird around Jensen, though, so if Jared _has_ remembered the events of the club he hasn't shared any of it with her.

They can't have the usual lounge this week; some other group has booked it for a film showing. Instead, the meeting's held in a third floor tutorial room. Jensen shows up early, but Jared's already there, shoving desks into a rough circle.

"Hey!" Jared gives him a genuine smile and Jensen feels something in his chest unclench. "Sorry I flaked out on things this week."

"God, don't apologize," Jensen protests. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine, now." Jared pushes his hair off his forehead. "I was really tired for a couple of days, and my memory was still kind of crappy. Figured there wasn't much point in coming to class, I wasn't taking anything in anyway. Back to normal now, though, far as I can tell."

"Normal, or normal for you?"

"Ha ha." Jared gestures to the back corner. "Keep that up and I won't give you any coffee."

The table in the corner holds a box of doughnuts and a couple of thermoses of coffee.

It's absolutely terrible coffee: Jensen tells Jared so at great length. Jared listens to him, grinning all the while and blithely stirring ridiculous amounts of cream and sugar into the...for lack of a better word, coffee.

Appalling coffee or not, Jensen's stupidly happy. Jared's here, and okay, and doesn't hate him. He feels like he dodged a bullet. And unlike most people who use that expression, he knows what that feels like—and what it feels like when you don't.

People trickle in. Attendance is down this week, probably some people missed the notice of location change. Jared describes the part of his dissertation that's giving him grief. The discussion of government structure, bureaucracy and waste gradually migrates into one about models of government and whether there's an optimum size of government.

"Monarchies work for small countries," Mia argues. "Look at Monaco. Or Sweden."

"That's not the monarchy, though, that's parliamentary democracy." Even Jensen knows that. "Saudi Arabia's pretty damn small."

"And monarchy works for them!" Mia points at Jensen. "They're rich, stable, and cohesive."

"And their women aren't allowed to drive," Anna points out.

Mia shrugs. "I'm not saying their choices are our choices. But the country's pretty unified. The model works."

"Tyranny never works. It's not good for so much power to rest in central hands," Phil says. "Even if they're good hands."

"Lord Vetinari," Mike throws in, poking through the doughnut box and retrieving a jelly one.

Anna snorts. "Examples from fantasy books don't count."

"Terry Pratchett's one of the most brilliant political writers of our time," Mike declares.

"We have a mandate to preserve and spread democracy," Phil argues. "America was founded on freedom."

"Freedom, yeah," Jared says thoughtfully. "Values, principles...if it comes down to it, what is America? The national structure, the land, the people? What defines us? The Founding Fathers valued freedom more than the specific form of government, right? If individual liberties are preserved, does the model of government matter?"

"And does it have to be central power?" Bethie rests her chin on one hand. "Things get bigger and bigger, and end up hamstrung from sheer inertia.""

"I still think most of the problems stem from large, inefficient government bureaucracy," Mia says.

"Maybe the solution is a smaller government unit," Bethie says.

"Or a larger one," Mia retorts, "just better organized. More efficient. Larger groups can avoid duplication of services."

"They don't really," Bethie points out. "Things still get duplicated at the regional level, because a national body _can't_ oversee everything when it gets too large. Even Sweden has local government, and look at us! Why not run everything from the state level?"

People toss that around for a while. It gets a little heated, with occasional forays into philosophy and religion; there doesn't appear to be any resolution in sight.

Jensen watches and listens closely, weighing how involved people seem to be in it. He makes the occasional contribution; after all, quite possibly someone's watching _him_ , although if so, he can't pick them out.

"Okay!" Jared calls finally, standing up. "You guys can keep things up here if you want, but I've got more writing to do. Just make sure you clean up when you go, and turn the lights out."

"What about the debate?" Anna asks. "You were going to give us our assignments tonight. We're still holding it on Thursday, right?"

There had apparently been a bit of resistance when Jared suggested they hold a formal debate each semester, open to the public. He'd pointed out, however, that while philosophical arguments over beer and snacks were a time-honored tradition, there were better ways to best an opponent than by throwing Cheetos at them. Debates offered the chance to review current literature and thinking, and hone one's oratory skills, maybe even attract new members to the group.

"Yeah, but you have to prepare for those things," Gabe had objected.

"You mean you might have to do some reading?" Mia blinked at him. "Perish the thought."

"Gabe can read?"

Mike ducked the beer can Gabe threw at his head.

"See, that's what I'm talking about," Jared had said. "Besides, we have to hold at least one official event per semester to get funding from the student union. Debate, or lose your subsidized pizza."

The vote had been unanimous.

"Thursday, yeah." Jared appears to make a spur-of-the-moment decision. "You know what? This is obviously something you guys are interested in. I bet it would get some outside attention too. Let's make it the formal debate."

A shiver runs up Jensen's spine as he listens to Jared outline a resolution that argues devolution of power as a good thing.

"Too vague," Phil says. "It needs to be more specific. Something that'll get people fired up."

"Okay, uh." Jared tilts his head. "How about...be it resolved that any state wishing to secede from the United States of America may lawfully do so if in a referendum over two-thirds of its population agree with separation?"

God. Jared could not fuck more consistently with Jensen's head if he tried.

"I'm not sure that'd be a popular topic," Anna says.

"We just discussed it for hours."

"That's because we're all nerds with an interest in politics and nothing better to do on a Friday night."

"Just for that," Jared says to Anna, "I'm assigning you to the affirmative side."

Jensen squints. "Why?"

"It's tougher." Jared winks. "They have to shoulder the burden of proof in order to win."

"Thanks," Anna says wryly. "I'll do my best."

***********************

Jensen hardly sees Jared the following week. Jared does show up for seminar, but they're assigned into different groups. He skips on coffee afterwards, apologizing that he's got to finish the next chapter to hand in to his advisor; Jensen barely has time to wave goodbye before Jared's out the door.

Jensen finds himself being unusually cheerful on Thursday. This is okay, people assume it's because it's nearly Friday. He has a bitch of a paper due the next day, but he still shows up to watch the debate. He'll probably have to pull an all-nighter, but this is important. Strategically, that is. Jared's chosen a topic that hits close to home: someone might give away a hint.

The fact that the event's important to Jared—that Jensen doesn't want to disappoint him, that he doesn't want to miss a chance to see him—is irrelevant. Really.

They're in a different, larger room tonight. Jensen had thought Jared was being overly optimistic, but to his surprise, the debate has in fact attracted a fairly large outside audience. There are at least seventy or eighty people in addition to the usual gang. Mike presides.

"Up here!"

Jared's waving at him. He's saved a seat beside him at the back of the room. Jensen grins and takes the steps two at a time.

The teams file in, Mike bangs his gavel, and they're underway. Jensen watches and for once, manages to mostly ignore the warmth and scent of Jared beside him. Instead, he lets his mind gently unfocus as he listens to the debaters and scans the crowd. It's worked for him before: a way of taking things in without letting his preconceptions get in the way. Allowing his intuition to see patterns, nuances.

Anna opens the debate, and within the first few minutes, it's clear that her team's on the defensive. She doesn't do a bad job, but she doesn't do an overwhelmingly good job either. She and her teammates Bethie and Zach discuss regional differences, tax rate disparities, the successful dissolution of the Soviet Union, and the rights of self-determination. Their presentation lacks unity, clarity, or that indefinable passion and fire that usually marks the winning team, however. Gabe, Louisa and Chad aren't the most unified opposition but they put up a strong fight and the audience is on their side.

He doesn't pick up anything unusual from the audience. They're interested, sure, some more than others—heckling, cheering, occasionally whispering to each other—but nobody seems out of place or overly vehement. It's a controversial topic, after all; it was bound to incite _some_ unofficial debate and commentary.

Maybe even serve as a subtle influence, getting students to consider the merits of separation.

And Jared chose it.

He knows what Jeff would think. It's a reasonable guess. But Jeff's _wrong._

Mike declares for the opposition. The teams shake hands, and spread out to mingle with the visitors.

Jensen chats to a few of them who seem like they might fit Aldis's profiling, but doesn't get any unusual vibes off anyone. He bites his lip in annoyance as people clear out. Another evening gone, and still nothing.

Maybe he's in the wrong group. Or maybe Jeff's informant was blowing smoke up their asses and he's wasting his time playing at higher education when the real war's going on outside.

His paper can wait another half hour. Jared probably needs help tidying up.

He doesn't even ask, just starts clearing away coffee cups and stacking pizza boxes. Jared throws him a thankful smile from where he's picking up discarded flyers and reorganizing chairs.

"So what'd you think?"

Not the best opener, but it gets Jared talking. Jensen throws in a few questions about the topic itself, trying to steer the conversation toward Jared's feelings about separatism without being too obvious. Jared mostly wants to talk about the actual debate, though.

"I was kinda surprised by Anna. She dropped the ball tonight."

Jensen frowns. "I thought she was pretty good."

"She was pretty good," Jared says, "but usually she's _amazing_. She's on the intercollegiate debate team, and they've won a couple of big tournaments. Anna's really smart and she's got, like, this cold logic to her. Makes it so the other team look like idiots for not agreeing with her, even if the facts totally support them. I've seen her completely annihilate opposing speakers without ever raising her voice."

He squints down the front row of chairs, and moves along it, straightening a couple. "It's the reason I put her on the affirmative team. Arguing for separatism—it's not gonna be a popular choice, right? And the burden of proof is on them. I figured they'd need Anna as firepower. But tonight...I dunno, she was just off."

"Maybe she's tired. Or coming down with something."

"Yeah, maybe," Jared agrees, tying the neck of the trash bag in a knot and slinging it over his shoulder. "Or maybe it was just a bad assignment for her. It's tough to argue for a position you don't believe in."

Jensen turns out the light as they leave the classroom. "Thought that was kinda the point of debating club? Learn to argue either side?"

"Well, yeah. But it's hard if you really don't believe in something."

 _What if you do?_

Jensen thinks about the debate as they dump the trash.

Anna's smart. She's got an interest in politics. And she held herself back in a debate on separatism.

What if you were secretly plotting something, and somebody assigned you to talk, very publicly and at length, about your motivations? And what if you suspected that somebody else might be trying to identify you and your co-conspirators?

You might not want to stand out. You might be reluctant to show just how much you know, say just what you think. You might be afraid you'll give away how much you care.

You might do a good job—don't wanna arouse suspicion—but not your usual great one.

She's female, but hey. Point eight percent, according to Aldis's algorithm.

He always knew it wasn't Jared. Aldis can suck it.

"Did you see the papers today?" Jared asks.

Jensen hadn't, yet. This is unlike him: it's important to Jeff that they stay up to date, but between that paper and the extra homework from Empirical Democratic Theory, and making sure he doesn't embarrass himself in front of Jared in Democracy seminar...

Okay, he really does need to regain his focus.

"The Texas Senate is making a lot more noise about government interference. There's even been some posturing about pulling out," Jared says. "This debate is a hell of a lot more topical than I thought. Things are looking _bad_ , Jensen."

Jensen's mouth is dry. "I'm sure it'll be fine. People...well, most people...don't _really_ want to split up the country."

"I can't imagine." Jared shakes his head. "But things have been weird lately."

Jensen stifles a cough. Jared doesn't know—doesn't remember—the half of it.

"They sure have," is all he says.

***********************

At one a.m., she makes the call. Scrambled, of course. "I'm in. Now what do you want me to do?"

"Have you tested it?" the voice asks.

"Of course." She's offended. She's always meticulous. "I have read and write access, full clearance."

"As far as you know."

She huffs. "Look, this is my area. That's why you're having me do it. Get over it, trust me to do my damn job, and tell me what you want done."

"The government's worried. Texas is one of the states that's actually got the clout to break away. They're going to be shoring up the military presence there, which is pretty huge already. People will see a lot more activity. Fighter jets over the city, that sort of thing. Washington needs to remind the average Joe that the feds are in control."

A cold, sick feeling settles in the pit of her stomach as he outlines the rest of the plan.

If one of those jets were to be carrying an activated bomb, that would be a serious sign of mistrust between federal and state governments. And if that bomb were to be deployed against a military target—say, one of the air bases around San Antonio—it would be an act of aggression of the US government against its own people. There's no way that's ever going to look good. In the current climate, though, with constant media fear-mongering about terrorism and the Patriot Act, the feds might be able to talk their way out of it: might be able to convince Texans that there had been a security breach and that the government had been dealing with a valid threat.

If that bomb were to go off course, though, and hit a civilian target...

"Texas won't stand for that," she says, numbly. "Things are strung too taut. They'll retaliate."

"All you have to do is adjust the coordinates."

The voice talks her through it, repeating the logic, the way it fits into their overall plans. The repercussions will spread farther than Texas. The rest of the country will see it as a deliberate act: it's completely believable that the feds might try and put a rebellion down using extreme force.

"Shut up," she says, abruptly, breaking into the stream of justification. "I'll do it. I don't have to like it."

"Tomorrow."

"That soon?"

"No point in waiting. Things are ready." The voice softens, very slightly. "I know it's hard for you, your first time. It'll be easier if you don't have too much time to think about it."

"You don't think I'll think about it after?"

"Are you with us or not?"

The softness is gone, if it was ever there. Maybe she imagined it.

"You don't want to be the weakest member of the team. You don't want to be...expendable."

She really doesn't.

"Do it. Tomorrow. Early afternoon. We'll arrange the launch. You activate, and control the targeting."

It's omelet time. Eggs get broken every day.

"Got it," she says, and signs off.

She looks down at her hands, twisting white-knuckled in her lap.

This is going to involve a _lot_ of eggs.

She'll do it, though. Not because he's threatening her: she's changed identity once, she could do it again and be gone before he knew it. She signed up for this for a reason, though, for ideals she believed—believes—in, and she won't back down now because of some collateral damage. The ends justify the means.

She tells herself that again, and goes to bed, but once again sleep is a long time coming.

***********************

Jensen rubs gritty eyes and shoves back from his desk. He looks at the clock, grins ruefully and picks up the phone.

"Do you even know what time it is?" Jeff says by way of hello. "Four in the goddamn morning. Your classes can't start _that_ early."

"Nobody to blame but yourself," Jensen says. "I haven't been to bed yet. Got a paper due tomorrow, worth thirty percent for the term."

"Glad you take deep cover seriously." Jeff yawns. "What couldn't wait another couple of hours?"

"I'm going to bed," Jensen says, "and I don't plan to get up until noon. Get the guys to run another check on someone in the meantime, okay?"

There's a rustle. "Name?"

"Anna Milton. She's a PoliSci grad student. Her name was on that list I gave Aldis, so she must have checked out on first look. But there's something...I dunno. She pings the radar."

"On it." Jeff doesn't question him. "Meet Chris at Sonny Bryan's Smokehouse at twelve-thirty. If there's something to find, we should have it by then, and you can pass on what you've got."

Jeff yawns again. "I'm not gonna have you tackle her directly. Keep your cover and leave it to Chris. If she is involved, hopefully she'll give us some names, but she might not know all the others—lots of terrorist groups are organized in cells. I'd like you to stick around and avoid suspicion a while longer. Oh, and make sure you aren't followed. You and Chris shouldn't be seen together."

"I have done this before, you know," Jensen says acerbically.

"Oddly enough, so have I." Jeff sighs. "I know you want out. I'll spring you when I can. If your hunch plays out, hopefully it won't be long."

"Yeah," Jensen says slowly. "Great."

He hangs up and stares at the title page of his paper, sitting neatly printed and collated on the edge of his desk.

His life is usually a lot cooler, and a hell of a lot more badass, than the last couple of months have been. He'd thought he'd be chewing off his own arm in an attempt to escape by now. (Metaphorically, at least: he's been in situations where chewing one's arm off might conceivably be a valid plan—though fortunately, there's always been a better plan—and this is not one of them.) He hasn't had a good fight in weeks (the scuffle at the bar hardly counts, and besides, Jensen isn't thinking about that night _at all_ ), and Chris is gonna give him shit about his college days for years to come. He should be going stir-crazy.

Instead, all he can think is that when he leaves, he won't even say goodbye. He'll vanish like they always do, gone from one day to the next. Move on to the next job, the next danger, and one of these days his luck will run out and the only memory of Jared touching and licking, lighting Jensen's skin on fire, will be gone from the world, because Jared doesn't remember.

Fuck. He needs this job to be over. He doesn't _want_ it to be over, but he's in far too deep already.

He kicks off his shoes, falls back on his bed still fully clothed, and doesn't wake up until ten minutes before he's supposed to meet Chris.

***********************

He's almost half an hour late, which would be in complete breach of protocol if this were an actual assignment. Luckily it isn't, and so Chris is still there, settled in a corner booth. He already has his food in front of him, and the waitress is clearly smitten.

Jensen's expecting Chris to waste some time tormenting him about Jared, but Chris has apparently learned from experience. After Jensen had given the team an abridged version of the incident at the club, Chris had needled him a bit and Jensen nearly took his head off. (Metaphorically, of course.) He figures Chris must have guessed that something happened—hell, probably the whole team has their speculations, but thankfully everyone's cutting him a bit of slack on it.

"Ordered for you," Chris says. "Got you the pulled pork."

"Thanks."

"You look like hell. Late night partying?"

"Late night writing a paper for a class I didn't sign up for," Jensen growls. "You done any actual work lately?"

Chris laughs. "Not much, actually. One or two small jobs, but Jeff's focused on this." He sobers, drums his fingers on the table. "You see the news yesterday? Things are looking bad."

"I heard," Jensen mutters. Jared's face, so serious as he says the same words, floats in his memory. "Anything turn up?"

"Yeah," Chris says. "Not much so far. No criminal record, no terrorist links, nothing obvious—except for the fact she's not who she says she is."

Jensen twitches an eyebrow, inviting him to continue. Chris holds up a finger, and keeps quiet until the waitress has delivered Jensen's sandwich and been dismissed with an appreciative smile.

"Anna Milton is a fake identity. Very well faked. Took Aldis a while to spot it, and then another hour to find her. None of her biometrics are in any database, and she covered her old ID pretty well."

Jensen licks sauce off his fingers. "So who is she?"

"Her real name's Julie McNiven." Chris shrugs. "Again, no criminal record, no terrorist links. Not much shows up even on a deep search. She's from Massachusetts, and she was raised by her grandmother after her parents died in a car accident. Had an otherwise uneventful life, never chased trouble, got straight A's in school. Nothing stands out. But you don't go to all the trouble to hide who you are for nothing. It would have been a lot of work: she created her new ID and applied to UT Dallas under it. Faked names and links to all her original transcripts."

"Witness protection?" Jensen hazards. "Running away from home?"

"Not witpro, we'd know," Chris says. "And I don't think it's a personal thing. Her web history's real clean as well. Email, some searches on obviously school-related topics. Movie listings, restaurant reviews. Absolutely nothing sketchy. No porn, no stupid cat videos, no dating websites. No online shopping. No illegal downloads."

"So she's not a sketchy person."

Chris swallows the last of his burger. "Or we're only seeing part of it. Everyone does _something_ stupid on the Internet."

"Especially you," Jensen says, but the insult's reflexive; he's thinking about Anna. Julie. Whoever. "You think she's got another layer of encryption. Something she's hiding."

"Yeah."

"So find it."

"Aldis tried. He can't."

Jensen stares.

"Can't _yet,_ he says," Chris amends. He looks a little smug at surprising Jensen. "There's something going on, all right."

"And I called it," Jensen reminds him. "Is Jeff happy for you to pick her up on nothing but that she's changed her name?"

"Not really," Chris admits. "I'll be keeping an eye on her, but he wants you to get more if you can."

"Should be able to clone something," Jensen says. "Credit card at the very least. I'll try for her phone."

"Need any tech?"

Jensen shakes his head. "I'm good."

"There's some stuff on here." Chris digs in a pocket and holds out a flash drive. "Figured you should have a look at what Aldis got so far. Maybe something'll stand out for you, something we didn't notice."

Jensen takes a couple more bites of sandwich. His attention wanders to the TV behind the counter.

"So I figure we'll..." Chris snaps his fingers in front of Jensen's face. "Dude. You in there?"

Jensen isn't listening anymore.

He's staring over Chris's shoulder at the TV behind the counter. The sound is muted but he recognizes the airfields, the shape of the city and its landmarks, and he's out of his seat, stomach sinking.

"What's up?" Chris says, turning to look, and falls silent as the scrolling text confirms, in stark capital letters, that the US Government bombed San Antonio airfields this morning. And that one of the missiles somehow went off course, landing in a civilian suburb. DEATH TOLL OVER 2000, MANY STILL MISSING.

"Jared," Jensen breathes.

"Go," Chris says, and Jensen's out the door running before he has a chance to think about what that means.

***********************

Jared's not in his office. There's a Post-It note saying 'CANCELLED' stuck to the sign listing his office hours. The handwriting is worse than usual.

He's not answering his phone. Jensen checks the library, the coffee shop, and Jared's favorite bench, before heading to his apartment.

Ringing the doorbell doesn't yield an answer. He sets a two-minute disable on the security camera and building alarm, picks the outer door lock, and races up to Jared's floor.

Jared's there; Jensen can hear him pacing.

He knocks. There's no answer.

"Jared," he calls, leaning up against the door frame. "Jared, it's me. Let me in?"

The pacing stops.

Jensen's just beginning to contemplate how Jared would react if he broke in, when steps start up again, this time coming over to the door. The deadbolt squeaks as it slides.

"How'd you get in?" Jared says dully, turning away as the door swings open.

"Picked the lock," Jensen admits, too concerned to bother dissembling.

"They teach you that in the military?"

His voice has a hard edge to it. _Jesus Christ._ Jensen hadn't even considered that as a reason Jared might not want to talk to him.

"Jared," he says, moving in and closing the door. "I didn't...I heard...Are your...?"

He can't finish.

"Dead," Jared says. He walks back into the living room and drops onto the far end of the couch.

Jensen had known the minute he saw him—maybe even from the first time Jared didn't answer his phone—but it still hits him like a physical blow.

"Pretty sure, anyway." Jared's voice is flat, lifeless. "Our area took a direct hit. Nobody there answers, the police lines are all jammed. All their cell phones go to voicemail. I did get one of Dad's colleagues who told me Dad hadn't come in, tried to convince me he might be stuck in traffic."

Jensen isn't sure Jared won't punch him out if he tries to get closer. He doesn't think he cares.

"Megan was home visiting." Jared talks to the far wall. He still hasn't so much as glanced at Jensen. "I imagine they were having a late breakfast. Dad usually goes in to the office earlier than that, but since Megan was there I guess he stuck around to eat with her and Mom."

"Jared," Jensen says helplessly. He moves in, can't help himself, prays he isn't hurting Jared more. He perches on the other end of the couch. "Jared, god."

"I wonder what they heard," Jared says. "What they saw. Felt. I wonder how long it lasted."

Jensen can't not touch him. Jared can take it out on him if he wants; Jensen would give him that and more. He moves in beside Jared, drops a hand on his knee. Their shoulders are touching.

"I talked to Megan last night." Jared looks at Jensen, then, and Jensen doesn't know what to say, what to do. He grips tighter, tries to absorb some of the pain. "She was gonna come up to visit. See the campus."

He squeezes his eyes shut, but the tears still leak out. "She was talking about applying for a job at one of the schools up here..."

His voice fails, and he covers his face with a hand, body hitching with suppressed sobs.

Jensen doesn't think, doesn't plan, just reaches out and hauls him into a hug. Jared's breath catches again, and Jensen nearly yelps as Jared's arms lock around him, squeezing almost painfully hard. Jared's face is wet against Jensen's neck; he can feel tears trickling down and soaking into the fabric of his shirt.

He holds on, patting Jared's back occasionally, muttering quiet apologies against the top of Jared's head. Jared's sobs settle after a while, but he doesn't let go, and Jensen is content to simply hold him silently. They sit there an indefinite length of time, breathing falling into a tandem rhythm.

Jared loosens his grip and pulls back a fraction of an inch. Jensen feels Jared's breath ghosting over his wet collarbone.

"Thanks, man," Jared says.

"Yeah," Jensen says, roughly, nonsensically. He realizes his right hand is rubbing slow, wide circles on Jared's back.

He stills the motion, but doesn't pull away. Jared tenses; there's a hitch in his breathing that isn't a sob.

"I..."

Jensen waits, feeling like every sense is magnified in the silence of Jared's sorrow. The tick of the clock on the wall behind him, the faint spice of Jared's aftershave.

The touch of Jared's lips against his skin.

Jared presses a tentative, closed mouth kiss to his collarbone. Another, over his pulse point.

Jensen is frozen, mind blank, accepting.

Another, to the angle of his jaw.

The corner of his mouth.

Jared's hands are gripping his shoulders tight enough to bruise, but Jared's mouth on his is careful, almost restrained, holding back—and Jensen suddenly realizes he's waiting for Jensen to respond.

If he were a better man he'd pull back, walk away, but the thing is, he knows what's on offer and he's been craving it since the first hit.

He parts his lips under Jared's.

It's more like being hit by a tidal wave than a kiss. Jared dives in, tongue-fucking him, licking at his teeth, owning his mouth. He makes a small noise, hurt and want and desperation all mixed up, and pulls Jensen in even harder, one hand coming up to cradle the back of his skull. It's a fucking awesome kiss, but it's still a tsunami of emotion and all Jensen can do is hang on for the ride.

He shifts slightly, to ease the pull on his neck, and Jared moves right along with him, leaning in and folding Jensen down on the sofa. His head thunks against the armrest; Jared mumbles a vague apology through the onslaught of kissing and flails a hand around behind him, coming up with a cushion that he shoves behind Jensen's head.

He's painfully hard, erection pressing into the line of his zipper, but he ignores it. This is about Jared, what he needs.

Jared is all over him, tearing at his clothes, biting at his chest, his belly. Jensen groans as Jared sucks him down.

Jared's mouth is even better than Jensen had imagined. It feels amazing, hot wet suction, frantic and sloppy and wonderfully imperfect. Jared keeps breaking rhythm, pausing to take a gulping breath or push his hair out of the way, and Jensen's going crazy with it. He's getting closer and closer to the edge, orgasm coiling at the base of his spine, and Jared won't quite give him enough to tip him over.

He's winding his fingers in Jared's hair and making encouraging noises, resisting the urge to simply fuck in mindlessly. His hips jerk up in a mute plea and Jared growls, pinning him down with a forearm across his stomach and pulling off Jensen's dick.

"Easy," he says, voice raw. "Easy. Hold still and let me."

Jensen groans and arches, head banging against the arm of the sofa again, as Jared grips the base of his cock and teases him with long slow licks to the shaft and gentle mouthing around the head. He's so hard it hurts, skin taut and shiny, balls full and aching.

"Jared..." he pleads. "God, please, I need..."

"Yeah?" Jared breathes. "Gonna come for me?"

He takes Jensen deep again, and sucks hard as he releases his grip.

The world goes nova and takes Jensen with it.

He's trying to catch his breath, vision still blurry and heart pounding, when Jared shifts beside him, sliding off Jensen's legs and rolling onto his stomach. His hip brushes against Jensen's in a fast, jerky rhythm as he humps the couch cushions.

Fuck that. Jensen already owes Jared one, even if Jared doesn't remember. No way Jared's coming in his pants again.

Jared makes a small, desperate noise of protest as Jensen grips his hip and pushes, turning him over, but it rapidly devolves into a whimper as Jensen yanks open his jeans and pulls his dick out through the slit in his boxers.

God, Jared's dick is as big and gorgeous as the rest of him.

Jensen gives it his full attention. Within seconds, Jared's writhing under him, making delicious little sobs and whimpers, as Jensen tries very hard to obliterate the memory of any other blowjob ever from Jared's mind. He takes Jared deep, humming around the shaft and playing with his balls through the fabric of his underwear. Evidently, Jared's wound as tightly as he was, because Jensen's barely gotten started, hasn't even done that thing with his tongue, when Jared comes with a hoarse shout, pumping hot and bitter down Jensen's throat.

He doesn't pull off right away, instead gently suckling Jared clean as he softens, until Jared rallies and pushes at his head with a grunt.

He pushes himself up on one elbow and watches Jared. Jared looks completely wiped out, face blank, mouth half open, eyes unfocused and staring at the ceiling.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I think...I kind of need to be alone right now."

It's not what Jensen had hoped to hear, but he doesn't argue.

"Call if you need anything."

Concern must have bled through into his voice, because Jared lays a reassuring hand on his arm. "Don't worry. I won't do anything stupid." He rubs a hand across his face, leaves it over his eyes. "I need to call Jeff."

Jensen blinks for a moment, before cluing in that Jared means his brother Jeff.

"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, okay. I'll let myself out. Seriously, though, you need _anything_ , you call."

"Sure."

Jensen pulls himself together, casts a last look back at Jared still lying motionless, and leaves.

The sun is shining. Birds are singing. Jensen just had sex with Jared. The world shouldn't feel so bleak.

He curses himself for taking advantage of Jared. But it would have been worse to shove him away. It doesn't have to mean anything, any more than their drunken fumbling in the nightclub did. Pure animal comfort. Affirmation of life in the face of death.

Apparently Jensen did learn something in Intro to Psych.

He's furious that the universewould dare to hurt Jared like this. How the hell did it happen, how did things get to this point? Is the government really that desperate, and short-sighted, that it's bombing its own people? Over ten percent of the armed forces hail from Texas, more than from any other state. This is going to be war; it's almost inevitable.

... _Fuck._

"It's them," he says aloud, startling a woman passing him on the sidewalk. "They engineered this." Somehow. Maybe they pushed the hard-liners in D.C., or the inflammatory element in Texas, or hell, maybe one of them was flying the damn plane. But it plays right into their hands. He would bet anything they're behind it.

They hurt Jared. He is going to destroy these fuckers if it's the last thing he does.

***********************

Chris's phone rings as he's watching Jensen race out of the diner.

"Need you back here now," Jeff snaps. "Bring Jensen."

"Can't," Chris says. "Just saw the news out of San Antonio. He went to find Jared."

Jeff sighs. "I guess we can do this without him. It's your job anyway. I'll give him a call while you're en route. Get here as fast as you can. This is very time sensitive."

"What is it?" Chris tries to signal for the bill.

"Not over the phone," Jeff says. "Move it."

The waitress is chatting with an older man at the counter and hasn't noticed his efforts to wave her over. Chris does some quick mental math, tucks the cash under the sauce bottle, and leaves.

When he walks into the conference room at headquarters, the image of a young woman is being projected on the far wall.

"Things are picking up," Jeff says. "The government's issued a half-hearted apology for the civilian damage in San Antonio, but they're not apologizing for having armed fighter jets in that airspace. The Texas state legislature is holding an emergency session. Washington's scrambling to figure out what the hell happened, and a vote of no confidence is being proposed. Both state and federal governments are rushing to put through legislation granting them emergency powers."

He points to the wall. "This is the daughter of Senator Casey. She was kidnapped around noon today from the UT Dallas campus. She's a student here in English Lit, no political involvement apart from her father. The Senator received an email on his private account..."

Aldis bows.

"...telling him they'll release her if he blocks the passage of the emergency bill. More, they want him to push the non-confidence angle, and try to force a federal government shutdown."

"I assume 'they' are our anarchist friends." Katie frowns. "Why do they want that? Even if people don't like the current government, they won't want to be without one at a time like this. A shutdown won't last long."

"If the government shuts down, even temporarily, it gives the states more impetus to run things themselves." Jeff shrugs. "They're banking on the states taking the initiative, and finding out they like the autonomy. It all feeds into the secessionist agenda. The federal government's already in crisis mode after the fuck-up this morning, even if they manage to find someone to scapegoat."

He starts pacing. "These guys aren't comic-book anarchists, randomly setting off bombs. They're playing chess. One move after another, building momentum. This one won't be the last, but it's the one we know about right now."

He points at Chris, then Katie. "You two are the retrieval team. Aldis will help you with any surveillance or computer stuff you need—"

"'Computer stuff'," Aldis says sadly, rolling his eyes. "Real specific."

"...but you're in charge of the physical retrieval. Regular hostage protocols apply, unless you hear otherwise from me _only_."

He turns to Aldis, who's still muttering under his breath. "You keep in touch with them, give them what they need. I don't figure they'll need too much, so you can use the rest of your time to keep tracking Jensen's leads. We know the anarchists are willing to use violence. And I don't know exactly how they pulled off the San Antonio bombing, but they've got to have serious access or clearance. We need to know more about them."

Aldis throws up his hands in exasperation. "So do I! I _am_ the shit, but I need a starting point! One terrorist, is that too much to ask? You get me one, just one of them—his computer, his cell phone, his freaking _bus pass_ —and I will have something to go on."

Jeff nods. "Chris."

"Foil kidnapping plot _and_ steal the guy's wallet," Chris says sarcastically. "Check. Can't Jensen get you something?"

"Maybe, but now he's not answering his phone," Jeff says. "He needs to be subtle. You don't. Knock one of them over the head and drag them back here. Or let Cassidy do it. Just get me _something._ We're playing defensively here, and we need to get ahead."

***********************

Her cell phone rings at three p.m., from a blocked number.

"You shouldn't answer right away," he says.

She jerks in surprise. "You shouldn't call now."

"Why not? Unpredictability is good."

"I could be in class!"

"You wouldn't answer."

"I could be with people!"

He sighs. "You wouldn't answer then, either, would you?"

"No," she grudgingly admits.

"It's shaken you up."

"No shit."

His voice is almost sympathetic. Almost. It's a put-on sympathy. Condescending. "It's not easy. But it is necessary."

"You don't have to coddle me," she says coldly. "Just tell me why you called."

"The files are ready. They're on a USB drive in the usual dropbox. You need to put them in the system within the next twenty-four hours."

"What's the rush?" She clenches her free hand into a fist, and tries to steady her breathing. "We only started this morning!"

"I decide when the time is right," he snaps. "The reactions are coming faster than we thought. Those files might not be needed for another week or more, but I want them in position now."

"Fine." She tucks the phone between her chin and shoulder and bends down to buckle up her bag. "I'll get them. Where do you want me to put them?"

"I leave that in your capable hands," he says. "You know the specifications."

She makes a face at the phone as he hangs up, and unbuckles her bag again. No point in picking the files up before she's ready to use them. The less time she spends carrying potential evidence around, the better.

She pulls out her computer and, after a surreptitious look around to be sure nobody's paying her any undue attention, opens her private back door into the federal government's sprawling, interlinked computer network.

She wanders around the system for a while, considering where to plant the files for best impact. These files will prove that the government is quietly moving to undermine and retract state rights; ideally, they need to be in a very sensitive location, to implicate high level authority. At least one, however, needs to be somewhere that a whistleblower or a casual hacker might conceivably encounter it. It can be a trail of breadcrumbs from there; they don't all need to be immediately accessible.

She identifies various spots that should work well as a starting point, and thinks about where to end the trail. The piece de resistance would be to have one in the high-level military and Homeland Security architecture. It would reinforce the message of the Texas incident: this country's government is willing to turn on its own people to keep its power.

She's digging around in the Homeland Security network when she sees it.

She doesn't believe it at first. She must be misinterpreting things.

The longer she spends looking around, though, the clearer it becomes: she hasn't misunderstood.

The government really is instituting something that massively undermines rights and freedoms. Only it isn't targeting states. It's targeting people. Individual citizens. And unlike the fake proposal she's supposed to be implanting, if this comes to light, the government will almost certainly get away with it. All in the name of "security."

They're instituting warrantless, full network surveillance. Real-time monitoring of _all_ Internet communications, via deep packet inspection.

Reading emails is the tip of the iceberg. They'll be able to intercept or even alter any communications, including voice, video, Skype. They can monitor, block, or censor network traffic based on the interception of keywords or search queries: controlling what their citizens see and hear.

And if they don't like what's happening in one particular area? There's a built-in kill switch. She can't see all the details and control points of that immediately, but it looks like Washington's granted itself the ability to shut down huge swathes of the internet.

 _Holy shit._

She fumbles for her phone and hits the redial button. To her surprise, he picks up right away. "What?"

"You will not believe what I've just found," she says, voice unsteady.

He listens silently as she describes what she's seeing.

"I have to take care of this," she says. "This is way more important than the files."

"You think so?" His tone is cold. "Your first priority is the mission that you promised to undertake. We are winning. Do you understand? This is what we've been working for all this time, and it's within reach. Soon, there may not be a government to watch us."

"This could jeopardize us _right now_ ," she insists. "What if things take longer than you expect? The monitoring system is already in place, and with everything happening right now, what do you want to bet they'll activate it? For all I can tell, they're doing it already!"

"You don't think they'll notice a hack that big?" he says sarcastically.

They will, of course. "Sure. But it might even work in our favor. That would mean a lot of spotlights focused on the Department's computer system, even if only internal. Someone's bound to trip over _our_ files, sooner rather than later."

"Except that you won't be able to get them planted, with all the increased attention and security."

"I could do both at once. I'll pick up the drive after class, and I can do it in a single run this evening. Implant the files, destroy the surveillance program. I could even close the door on the way out."

They'll make it a priority to investigate a hack that major, and the last thing she needs is for it to be traced back to her. She knows how to break in now; she could probably do it again, even though they'll for sure make changes.

"No," he says firmly. "Don't do it. That's an order. We need those files put in place, and we need continued access. You can't even tell if the program's active. If it isn't, it doesn't matter. If it is, it hasn't caused us any trouble, and they're going to have a hell of a lot more to distract them in the days to come. The odds of them finding us are vanishingly small, especially if we keep using encryption."

"But..."

"Do what you've been told to do. No more, no less."

She swallows hard. "Okay. I'll do it your way."

She disconnects the call, already knowing she won't.

The dropbox is conveniently located on the way to campus. She's running a few minutes early, and the place is quiet, so she opens it now. It contains the drive, and also a slip of paper with a new P2P encryption key. She tucks both deep into her bag, and heads to her last class of the day. She's half tempted to skip it, but she never skips; her absence would be notable. Plus the course, Game Theory for Political Scientists, has proven itself remarkably useful.

***********************

"That's got to be a record," Katie says. "Kidnapping retrieval in under three hours? We _rock!_ "

"I'd be more impressed if you got one of the kidnappers alive," Jeff growls. "What have I told you about being trigger-happy?"

"Sorry." Katie looks contrite. "I did get his iPhone, though."

She tosses it to Aldis. His eyes light up and he produces a gizmo from his pocket and goes to work. Very briefly.

"Eleven seconds to unlock," he announces. "Now _that's_ got to be a record."

"Check the contacts," Chris says.

"Who's the hacker here?" Aldis shoots him a withering glare. "Oh, right. Me. I know what I'm doing, Kane. You give me another couple of minutes, I'll have everything for you. Contacts. Emails. Facebook profile. Everywhere this phone has been."

"You don't look happy," Katie says to Jeff. "Shouldn't this make you happy? What's wrong?"

"You've been busy," Jeff says. "So you probably haven't heard the results of the vote. Even without Senator Casey's support, the emergency powers bill went through. Maybe there were other kidnappings, or maybe people genuinely support it, I don't know, but it passed."

Katie wipes a hand over her face. "Oh oh."

"There's more. The state legislature here met to discuss the response to this morning's events, and things went way farther than I thought they would. They voted overwhelmingly in favor of forming the Republic of Texas. Texas has started calling its members of the Armed Forces home."

"Shit."

"We're in over our head," Jeff says. "I don't think we're going to win, but I'm not giving up yet."

"Hello." Aldis says. "Here we are. Recognize anyone?"

He holds out the phone. Julie's picture is on the screen.

"I'll get her," Chris says, standing. "Where is she right now?"

Aldis frowns. "I'm still having trouble tracking her phone. According to her class schedule, though, she'll be leaving the Management building in ten minutes."

"Damn." Chris checks his watch. "I'll try and make it. Maybe class'll run late."

"Make sure you get her laptop," Aldis advises.

"Who's the retrieval agent here?" Chris looks down at himself. "Right. Me. I'm going to retrieve. Don't wait up."

"Hang on," Aldis says, scrolling down the screen. "There's another one."

"Is that..." Katie says.

"Zach," Jeff confirms. "You get him. And for God's sake, don't shoot him anywhere fatal."

***********************

Julie's class gets out fifteen minutes early. Jensen's been sitting on a window ledge in the hallway since half-past five, waiting. He steps in behind her as she's leaving the classroom, and slings his arm around her. "Hey, Anna."

He's done with subtle. Jeff's been taking it slow and careful, and look what happened. She hurt _Jared_ , and Jensen is seeing red. He presses his gun into her side; it's shielded by his body and the fall of his jacket.

"Did you watch the news? Did it make you happy? All those people?"

Her spine stiffens in surprise. He can see the muscle at her temple twitch as she clenches her teeth, then relaxes.

"Jensen," she says. "Damn. I thought we checked you out properly."

He'd been sure it was her, but the confirmation still makes his gut twist.

"My guy's good." He nudges her forward with the gun barrel below her ribs, leading her toward the stairwell. "Broke your ID. _Julie._ "

"Military, _and_ brand new in town." She bites her lip. "I should have caught on. Guess I spent too much time in the virtual world."

"You had bigger things to worry about," Jensen says tightly. "Like killing Jared's family."

Her step falters at that. He jams the gun harder against her side, catching her arm with his free hand and pinning it against her. She isn't trying to run, though; her weight sags against him.

"Oh," she whispers.

"Not gonna say you're sorry?" He keeps a tight hold on her arm, pushes her out the fire door at the base of the stairs. They both blink as they emerge into late afternoon sunlight.

She half shrugs. "Would you believe me? I'm sorry enough anyway. Jared... I like him. I regret that, but it doesn't change anything."

He tamps down the rage. They're in public.

"This way," he grits out, jerking his head to the right.

She turns as he directs.

A shiver runs through her as they leave the boundaries of campus, and she wraps her arms around herself.

"Uh-uh," he says. He lets go of her arm, switches his grip on the gun, and reaches around to grip her other wrist. She gives a little cry as he presses on the nerve point; her hand falls loosely open and her phone drops to the ground. "None of that."

He bends and retrieves it, keeping his gaze and the gun trained on her the whole time. It's tricky to pop it open and remove the card and GPS chip one-handed, but he manages by stabilizing it against his gun hand. He pockets the phone and pushes her forward again; the chip he drops in the first garbage bin they pass.

"Where are we going?"

"Headquarters."

"Which one?"

"Mine."

"And who are you?" She balks momentarily as he directs her down a deserted side street, but another press of the gun gets her moving again. "Police? Military? Men in Black?"

"None of the above. And none of your business."

"Freelance?" She keeps walking, but turns her head to glance at him. "I thought you were the type to value personal freedom."

"Not your version."

"You don't even know what you're fighting for."

"We know what you and your friends are up to. Not gonna happen."

"The government you're trying to salvage? Let me tell you what they're doing."

"Save your breath," Jensen says. "Left."

She talks anyway.

At first, he tries not to listen, tries to block her out. That's a mistake, though, one he's too good to be making. He can hear Jeff's voice in his head: _there's always something useful there._ People lie, sure, but the lies can tell you almost as much as the truth.

He can't let his anger run this show. He needs to pay attention, look for the bits of truth among the lies and the hints she won't be able to help but let slip.

"See, what you don't get is that I don't care all that much about the specifics." Her eyes burn with fervor, and Jensen suppresses a grimace. Fanatics are hard to reason with. Whatever's driving this woman is akin to religion, something she obviously believes and will fight for to the end. "This country's too damn big _._ Centralized government means there's so many layers between people and the decisions that affect them—it's completely unfair! We want to break it down. Bring it back to local, grassroots. There's this huge disconnect between government and the people they're supposed to serve."

She stops abruptly. They're crossing a deserted parking lot; they're right out in the open. He nudges her with the gun again but she ignores it, spinning to face him and backing up a few steps.

"How is someone in Florida supposed to understand the needs of a farmer in North Dakota? Is it fair that the north-east makes decisions for Texas? We're not anti-American, we're pro-states! Cascadia, the Republic of Texas—they've had separation movements for years! They want to govern themselves— _let them!_ They know what's best for them!"

His gun hand is tucked tight against his side, keeping his profile innocuous to any casual passer-by. He stares straight at her face and clicks the safety off. Her eyes widen but she only talks faster, spitting out words, hands waving.

The thought strikes him that if she'd brought this level of passion to the debate, her team would have won hands down. That night seems distant now, a different life.

"All Washington's talk of cybersecurity and counter-terrorism...they're using it to sneak in a massive breach of personal freedoms. They're doing what Internet engineers spent years making sure didn't happen—they're installing a spy camera on every single citizen, and they're undermining the rights of everyone in this country."

She takes a tiny step forward. Jensen cocks an eyebrow and twitches the gun very slightly.

"You must have heard about that, a few months back. They proposed a bill that would enable them to conduct deep Internet surveillance, real-time monitoring of every electronic communication...."

"Yeah," Jensen says, "but there was so much uproar they backed down."

She shakes her head, hair flying in a red cloud around her shoulders. "They lied!"

"How the fuck would you know?"

"They've installed the code. I found it."

"Bullshit!"

"No, it's true!"

She steps forward again. He growls and raises the gun. She takes a deep breath, and three more quick steps.

She stands there, hands hanging loosely at her sides, muzzle of the gun jammed against her breastbone.

"I've seen it," she says again, eyes boring into his with calmly insane sincerity. "And I'm going to destroy it. I'm the only one who can do it. I won't do it if you take me in. And I _can't_ do it if you kill me."

"I'm not letting you go."

"Please," she says for the first time. "I'm sorry about Jared. I really am. But this is bigger than revenge. Let me show you."

***********************

Her hands are trembling; she balls them into fists and wills them to stop. Her heart is racing, her lips are numb and tingly. She'll be lucky if the amount of adrenaline pouring through her doesn't give her a heart attack on the spot.

It might be her life on the line. She doesn't think he'd actually shoot her, but she wouldn't want to bet on it. That's not her biggest fear, though.

She's been willing to die for the cause. But if she dies now, her discovery dies with her.

The dissolution of the US will continue with or without her efforts. Her colleagues don't know that yet; that's why they're still messing with plots and plans. But they don't need to. The file project would have helped, but already the pieces are folding and sliding and tumbling inevitably into place, one after another, interlocking events programming the future. The government _has_ to subdue the rebellions; they can't let them slide. They've gone too far already, though: they've been too harsh here, too abrupt there, and the dissent grows and spreads daily. It will be civil war.

But the internet, free exchange of information, net neutrality...that's worth fighting for. And she hadn't even known, before today, that it was under threat.

Ironically, Washington may have installed something that'll disable the country more effectively than anything she and her colleagues could ever do. They created the killswitch to protect against outside enemies, but there are two fatal flaws in their plan. Faulty premises will get you every time. It's the oldest rule in the computing world: garbage in, garbage out. In this case, they failed to see that on the Internet, nobody is 'outside'; physical boundaries have far less meaning. And that inside enemies have an even better shot at fucking you up. Especially when you're dumb enough to install a 'Disable Us Here!' button.

One of the break-away groups will get hold of it—if some hacker in China or Spain or Australia doesn't do it first—and they'll end up disabling the whole damn continent. The Internet's the most complex machine humanity's ever built. How the hell they think they can get away with shutting down a piece of it, without major spillover effects... well, obviously the point is that they _don't_ think. They haven't got a clue.

She keeps walking. He's got his other arm slung around her shoulders once again, boyfriend-style. With every step, the muzzle of the gun nudges against her ribs.

Of course he doesn't trust what she's telling him. She wouldn't either, if the situation was reversed. Inviting him to her apartment was not an obvious move. But her stuff's there, her best security, all her notes—if she's got a hope in hell of convincing him, it's there. And if he's going to kill her, well. That can happen anywhere.

Plus, with the way he's draped over her, he's almost certainly going to leave traces. DNA, fibers. She watches a lot of CSI.

"The key's in my left front pocket," she says, as they approach her building.

He nods approvingly. "Thanks for the warning."

"You're not going to get it?" She tries to sound arch and taunting, rather than surprised.

He laughs. "What, you thought I was just waiting for any chance I could get to stick a hand in your pants?"

She 'accidentally' elbows him while shifting to wiggle the keys out of her jeans.

"You've got an alarm," he says, as the elevator rises towards her floor. "Disable it, then disconnect it. I want to see wires."

"Yes _sir._ "

He lets go of her the moment her apartment door closes behind them, a move which surprises and, oddly, faintly annoys her. He's not supposed to be chivalrous about this.

"Through there," she says, standing.

He whistles at her set-up, and she can't help the smug little grin that crosses her face. "Yeah."

He throws himself into the papasan. Every evening she curls up in that with a cup of tea and the shawl her grandmother knitted her when she first left for college. Now there's a man with a gun and a grim expression occupying it, and the endgame's upon her. "Show me."

She tucks her hair behind her ears and gets to work.

She doesn't take the most direct route into the system. Mostly because it's always a good idea to lay down a convoluted trail, different each time, but partly because she wants to show off. Show him who he's messing with.

It doesn't work perfectly as an intimidation tactic, because he doesn't understand all of it, she can tell. He doesn't always make the right noises, doesn't appreciate some of the pathways she's found, doors unlocked. But he recognizes some of the systems, and once there's a startled gasp that gives her a small flush of completely justifiable pride.

She pulls up the code in one window, and opens some of the ultra-classified memos and instructions in another, because it's not like he'll be able to interpret the source code.

"There," she says, pushing back from the desk and folding her arms. "And there."

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, gaze fixed on the screens. The gun is hanging loosely between his knees. Her foot twitches.

"Don't," he says, eyes still scanning the computer.

"I won't," she says, and means it. Because she recognizes the expression slowly darkening his face, tightening the lines around his eyes. She's seen it in the mirror enough times.

It's the recognition that you are, in fact, that kind of person. That you have it in you to betray. If the stakes are high enough.

"Goddamnit." He bites his lip. "I should be bringing you in right now. You've caused a lot of damage. I can't let that slide." He narrows his eyes, and she shivers; she's never had this level of hate directed at her before. "And you hurt a friend of mine. I _never_ let that slide."

"I won't cause any more," she says, meaning it. "I was specifically told to leave this alone. If I disable the system, I won't be trusted with anything more. I might not even be able to go back. I'd be expendable." _You don't want to be the weakest link._

He tips his head back and stares at the spider plant hanging above him. "You and me both. I would get so much shit for this."

"I dropped it off a balcony once," she tells him. "Fifth floor."

"What?"

"My plant." She gestures. "It's been through a lot. One time, I had it in the kitchen for watering. It was a tiny apartment and there wasn't any counter space, so I sat it on the stove. When I came back in to make lunch, I turned on the wrong element and only noticed when the plastic pot started to smoke. It got all melted into the roots. I had to cut a chunk off."

He blinks, clearly not sure what to do with this information, but doesn't interrupt her.

"It was looking a little peaked after that—not surprising—so I put it out on the balcony where it would get some sun. Then a really bad wind came up one night, and it blew it off. Five floors down, and it smashed in the parking lot."

She shrugs. "I picked it up the next morning, peeled off all the broken bits, stuck it in another pot, and figured for sure it would die."

"But it didn't."

"Nope."

"You gonna give me some bullshit about adversity?"

"I don't think I need to." She tangles her fingers, staring down at the absence of rings. "You're smart. Connect the dots. The point is, you'll help me. You've already made your decision, you just don't want to admit it. And you'll survive."

***********************

The classroom's dark when Chris gets there. He checks out the library and the campus café, then calls Jeff.

"What's her address?"

"She won't be there," Jeff says. "Katie's brought her guy back and he's feeling talkative. He says Julie was to do the fake file plant tonight. After class, she was heading to pick up a flashdrive with the files on it, from a dropsite they use near campus."

"I'll stake it out," Chris says. "Give me the directions."

He follows standard protocol. He checks the area thoroughly: it's clear, and so he empties the dropbox before the target arrives.

Except it's already empty.

He calls Jeff again. "She's been and gone. The drive's not here."

Aldis is apparently on the line too. "She can't be far," he says. "I got access to her phone and I'm tracking the GPS. You're standing almost right on top of it."

"I'm telling you," Chris growls, "I've checked the area. She's not here."

"Seriously," Aldis says. "It's maybe fifteen feet to the north."

Chris scans down the street, and sees the garbage can.

"She ditched it."

"Maybe Zach warned her," Jeff says. "Okay. Let's get Jensen back in. We've got the IDs we need, and he'll be more use here."

"I tried calling earlier to warn him about Zach and Julie," Chris says. "He's still not answering his phone."

"Call Jared's place," Aldis says.

"And blow his cover?" Chris says. "That's not exactly subtle."

"You don't have to tell him you're a secret agent. Just say you're a friend looking for Jensen. Besides, fuck subtlety. Things are moving too fast now. We need Jensen."

***********************

Jensen's still holding the gun and looking indecisive. Julie looks away from him, and back at the screen.

Something's changed.

Oh. Shit.

She turns more fully toward the computer and starts looking, moving.

Shit shit _fucking hell._

"Stop it," Jensen tells her, warning note in his voice.

"No, god, you don't understand," she says. "It's different, something's changed."

The system has noticed her incursion.

There was a layer of monitoring and security she didn't break. It noticed her the last time, and her re-entry has triggered an automatic response. Her location's being targeted. By...

"They wouldn't," she says. It's hard to form the words, her mouth is so dry. She can feel all the blood draining from her face; she's sick and light-headed.

"What?" he says harshly.

"I screwed up," she whispers. "I didn't get all the way in after all. We've been noticed. If proper security codes aren't provided, there'll be a retaliatory strike within the hour. And..." she squeezes her eyes shut, "it's nuclear."

***********************

Jensen doesn't believe it at first.

"They're not actually going to _nuke_ their own territory. It's just a threat."

It's not. The countdown is running. "Look for yourself. I'm not lying."

"For a computer hack? It's ridiculous. It's massive overkill."

She flinches at his choice of words.

"Maybe. Or...maybe it wasn't originally meant to be that harsh a retaliation. But this is Homeland Security. And as of this afternoon, we're in a state of emergency and Texas has basically declared civil war."

He closes his eyes and breathes deeply for a few seconds. "Can you stop it?"

"I think so."

She's pretty sure she can. She learned how to spoof the system when she was in the last time. She'll definitely have to destroy her access, but she was going to anyway.

Ironically, the threat has strengthened her position. Jensen's not going to let the city be hit. He's in a dangerous field of work, but he's got to value his own life—and even if he didn't, he's already shown he's not the type to accept collateral civilian damage.

"Or I could just shoot you," Jensen says, "and get my IT guy to do it instead."

"Are you kidding?" she splutters. "You don't have time for that."

He squeezes the bridge of his nose. "Fuck," he mutters.

She watches a minute tick by. Another.

"We _really_ don't have time," she whispers.

Julie can see it, the moment he gives in. She sympathizes. It's painful, betraying one of your principles for the greater good.

She can help with that.

"Okay," he says. "Do it."

"Thank you," she says quietly. "Give me a minute, though? We have at least half an hour, and I need to use the bathroom."

He does her the courtesy of allowing her to shut the door, although he stands in the hall outside. She flushes, runs the water in the sink, and very quietly opens and closes the medicine cabinet.

He turns away, back toward the living room, as she exits the bathroom, and she makes her move.

His hand comes up before she's even consciously aware of the flicker in the corner of her vision. By the time she processes what's happening he's locked his grip around her wrist, keeping the syringe she's holding inches away from his body.

"Thought we had a deal," he growls.

"We do."

"That why you're trying to knock me out the minute my back's turned?"

"It won't." She twitches her fingers. His gaze is drawn there: half a cc of clear liquid. It could be water. It's not.

"It'll make you forget."

Jensen tightens his grip. She grits her teeth. "Forget what?"

"What you're about to do," she says. "Plus the last hour or so. Maybe more. We still haven't worked out all the kinks, but you'll be fine by tomorrow."

"So you can make your escape?" Jensen snorts. "Don't trust me after all, huh? Guess it's mutual."

She shakes her head ever so slightly. "That's not it. I know you'll honor your deal."

"Then why?" He squeezes even harder; she winces. She can almost hear as well as feel the bones grate.

"You love him," she says quietly. "Do you really want to remember?"

He stares at her, grip loosening. She doesn't pull away; that would be the wrong way to handle this man.

"It's an awful choice." She wills him to understand what he's offering. "You'll do the right thing. But you won't have to live with it."

Various emotions flicker across his face. She sees him come to a realization, and he settles on anger.

"You're the one who drugged Jared! You little bitch."

She lifts one shoulder delicately. "We knew someone was sniffing around after us. I was pretty sure it was someone local, from the computer trail. Jared was running that group, he organized that damn debate... we thought it might be him."

Jensen snorts. "We thought he was one of yours."

She smiles a little at the irony, but drops the expression quickly when he snarls again and twists her wrist. "So you gave him...this?" He jerks his chin at the syringe still in her hand.

"More or less. It wasn't me. And it was an earlier version. My friends tweaked it a little since."

"What is it?"

"Amnesty."

"That's its name?" He grimaces. "What is it?"

"Its name, and what it is." She twitches her fingers again. They're starting to tingle; she'll drop the syringe soon if he doesn't let go. "It's amnesty in its purest form. You don't remember your actions. You don't remember taking it—if you time it right, you don't even remember the decision to take it. Retrograde amnesia."

He stares at her, then at the syringe.

"It's got a lot of potential," she says. "Still a little crude. But it doesn't permanently burn out the hippocampus." She leaves out the _any more_. "Jared's fine, isn't he?"

"No thanks to you," he says harshly. "Does it..."

"What?" she prompts, when he doesn't continue.

"Does it, uh. Make you do things you wouldn't normally?"

She huffs at that. "Stupid. You don't strike me as the type to be insecure."

His eyes narrow. "Answer the question."

"No."

"No it doesn't, or no you won't answer?"

She rolls her eyes. "God. No, it doesn't. Can you let go? My hand's going numb."

"Should I believe you?"

She gives him an annoyed look. "Believe or not, I don't care. It's derived from a benzo. It makes you dopey, maybe a little disinhibited, especially with alcohol on board. But it's not gonna make you do things...," she pauses, arches an eyebrow at him, " _want_ things you didn't otherwise."

He doesn't say anything, but a muscle twitches in his jaw. She gets the feeling they'll be standing there a long time if she waits for him to finish processing.

"Jared was already into you," she spells out. "Amnesty just made him act on it—then forget about it, and I'm sorry about that, because I imagine it was a teeny bit awkward. But his feelings are real."

She takes a deep, steadying breath.

"And so are yours." She ignores the warning noise he makes. "You should take it. It'll make it easier to live with yourself. You won't know you chose to let me go. More to the point, you won't have to tell Jared you let me go."

It takes him a while to answer.

"It would be a lie."

"He needs you," she says. "He _will_ need you."

He curses her, then, at some length.

"So?" she says, when he falls silent.

"Not now," he says hoarsely. "When it's over."

He lets go of her.

She heads back to her desk, lays the syringe down, and begins working. Neither of them say a word for the next ten minutes.

Finally, she drops her chin to her chest, closes her eyes and lets out a small sigh. Her fingers still rest on the keys.

"Thank you," she says.

He scrubs a hand across his face. "It's done?"

"Yes. Both." She bites her lip. "It's a messy job. Basically, I just took out the targeting system as well as the surveillance code. It's leaving a gaping hole in the system, they'll notice immediately. We have to get out of here."

"You've got an escape route."

"Yes."

He nods. "Okay."

"You should take it now." She tilts her head toward the syringe.

"Will you do it?"

She raises her eyebrows. "I can."

He looks away.

"If it makes you feel better," she says. "Less of a betrayal?"

"Just fucking do it," he growls. "Somewhere inconspicuous."

"No problem," she says, moving around behind him. "See you again some day, maybe."

"Not if I see you first, bitch," he grumbles.

"You're a good man," she says. "You deserve peace."

"Shut the fuck _up_ and do it before I change my mind and shoot you."

She stabs him a little harder than she needs to.

***********************

Jared had taken a long nap after his phone call to Jeff. It's past nine when he wakes up, the sun has set, but he doesn't feel rested. The dull weariness of grief tugs at him.

He should probably eat something. He isn't hungry, but it's been hours.

He's picking at a bowl of Fruit Loops when his phone rings.

"Jared? I was coming back from bingo and I met a young man in the lobby who says he's looking for you. I think he might be on drugs."

Mrs. Redgrave lives in 410 with two cats and a great many pictures of grandchildren. Jared often helps her with her groceries.

"I was going to call the police, but then I thought perhaps I should call you first. He keeps insisting that he needs to see you but he couldn't remember your apartment number. He's acting rather oddly."

"Did he say his name?" Jared's bewildered. Jeff couldn't have gotten here this fast from New York. "What's he look like?"

"Tall, light brown hair, green eyes. He's quite handsome, really." Mrs. Redgrave coughs. "He's wearing a leather jacket. He wouldn't give his name."

Jared stares at the phone in confusion. It has to be Jensen. Since when does Jensen do drugs?

"I'll take care of it," he says. "Thank you for not calling the police. He's a friend."

Mrs. Redgrave sighs. "You're such a nice boy, Jared. I hope you aren't getting mixed up in anything bad."

"Don't worry," he reassures her, hoping the same thing. "I'm sure it's some mix-up. You have a good day."

He hangs up the phone and stares across the room at the couch. The one on which he'd gone temporarily insane and taken advantage of Jensen earlier that day, before kicking him out of the apartment. He's probably screwed that friendship up beyond repair, and that hurts—which is surprising; he didn't think he had any residual capacity for hurt, after this morning.

He'd accepted, weeks ago, that if Jensen were interested, something would probably have happened by now. He values Jensen as a friend, and he hadn't wanted to lose that by letting Jensen know how he really felt. So much for that plan.

Could he have upset Jensen badly enough that he'd go get fucked up? Jensen's more stable than that.

"Did _you_ do something stupid?" he mutters, and heads down to the building entrance.

It's Jensen, all right, slouched against the wall of mailboxes, face screwed up in concentration and tongue between his teeth. He's trying to pick the lock on 322 with a bent paperclip.

"Jen?" Jared says in bewilderment. "What's going on?"

Jensen spins around, hands coming up in a defensive stance. He relaxes instantly when he sees it's Jared, and falls back against the wall. "Dude! I couldn't find you."

His eyes are wide and glazed, pupils massive. He definitely looks like he's on drugs.

"Hey," Jared breathes, moving forward slowly. It's probably not a good idea to spook Jensen. "I'm here now. What happened to you?"

Jensen opens his mouth, then pauses. A look of puzzlement slowly forms on his face. "I dunno. I can't remember."

Jared feels growing unease. "What's the last thing you remember?"

"I..." Jensen's face falls. "I was on campus. I wanted to call you." He looks mournfully at Jared. "You were so sad. I wanted to make it better. But you wanted to be alone."

Just his luck that Jensen would remember _that._

"I'm sorry," Jensen says. "I'm sorry I took advantage of you."

"What?" Jared's mouth drops open. "If anything, I was the one taking advantage. I was all over _you_ , man." He pushes back his hair. "I thought, after...I figured I'd let you off easy."

"Wasn't easy," Jensen says sadly.

"No," Jared agrees. "Jen, did you...what did you do when you left? Because no offence, but you kind of look, uh. Stoned."

"Can't be." Jensen frowns. "I don't do drugs."

"Neither do I," Jared says. "I still got whammied that one time. Maybe someone gave you something?"

Jensen shrugs. He doesn't appear to care.

"Can I come in?" he says. "You can take advantage of me all you like."

Jared swallows hard.

"You can come in," he says. "Only I won't..."

He's interrupted by two things: Jensen pushing off the wall and falling against his chest, and a crash as the glass door behind them shatters.

Jensen moves unbelievably fast for someone who's on drugs. Jared hardly feels him hook a foot behind his knee before they're falling to the floor. He lands mostly on Jensen, who rolls them over so he's lying on top of Jared.

Jared looks over Jensen's shoulder and freezes, question sticking in his throat. There's a man stepping through the broken door, and he's holding a gun. It's aimed directly at the back of Jensen's head.

He doesn't even think, just flips them over again, shielding Jensen. He hears a shot.

Nothing hurts. There's a grunt and a collapsing noise behind him.

He rolls off Jensen and sits up. The man is lying in a slowly expanding puddle of blood on the tiled floor. Another man and a woman step through the door.

"Hi," the blonde says. "You must be Jared."

"Who the hell are you?"

"I'm Katie. This is Chris."

"Nice to meet you. Who the hell _are_ you?"

"Friends of Jensen's," Chris says. "From...work."

Jared laughs a little crazily and looks at the body on the floor. "Work. Right."

"I'm calling 911," Katie says to Chris. "I need to prove to Jeff that I'm capable of bringing this one back alive."

Jared drops his head in his hands and starts to shake. Today has been a hell of a lot to handle.

"It's all right, son," Chris says. "We're gonna get you to a safe place." He looks at Jensen, who appears to have fallen asleep. "What's up with him?"

"Drugged, I think," Jared says. "He showed up here like that, says he can't remember anything since the afternoon."

"Jesus." Chris frowns. "Well, now we know why he wasn't answering his phone."

"I think I lost it," Jensen says, eyes still closed. "I tried to call Jared, but I couldn't."

Chris swears. "She must have taken it. You idiot, you should have waited for me like Jeff ordered! Now they've got our numbers, and you almost got yourself killed."

"Who's she? Who are they?" Jared is floundering. "Is Jensen still in the military? Are you guys on some kind of secret mission?"

"Anna Milton. Terrorists. No. Yes." Chris reaches out a hand; Jared takes it, stunned. "She's behind the bombing, Jensen went to pick her up, and she must have drugged him to escape."

It's too much. As Chris hauls him to his feet, the world goes black.

***********************

Jensen's disoriented when he wakes up. He's not in his current apartment, nor in the one he shares with Chris. He sits up and realizes he's on an air mattress, on the floor of one of the small offices at headquarters.

There's blood spatter on his shirt, although he's unhurt. He has no idea how he got here. His shoes are by the door and his jacket's thrown over a chair, but his phone and his gun are gone.

It's disconcerting, but that's nothing compared to the shock he gets when he encounters Jared by the coffeemaker in the lounge.

"Um," Jared says. "Hi. So, I hear you're a secret agent."

"Apparently not so secret," Jensen says. "I didn't _tell_ you, did I?"

"No," says Jeff; Jensen hadn't even noticed him sitting in the corner. "You disobeyed my direct order, got yourself drugged, found your way to Jared's apartment building, and let someone trace you there. Jared nearly got shot trying to save your damn fool life."

Jensen gapes. He reaches out and runs a hand up and down Jared's arm. Jared doesn't look hurt. He doesn't look mad either, thank god.

"Julie got away," Jeff says. "I've put her description out to the network, though. If she shows anywhere on the radar, they've agreed to apprehend and let us know."

He stands up. "You two probably need to talk. Get out of here. Jensen, I'll see you Monday morning."

"I'm not fired?"

Jeff smiles. "I only told you half the story. You were a reckless idiot, but you appear to have stopped the file plant and you've put Julie on the run. We have a suspect to interrogate, and nobody on our team got hurt. I'm calling it a win."

The sun is blinding when they step outside.

"Let's get a cab," Jensen says. "I don't feel like walking, and I have no idea where my car is."

"I think Chris has it," Jared says. "Jeff sent him to retrieve it."

"Really?" Jensen stops and reverses direction. "In that case, it's probably in the parking garage."

It is. The keys are in the usual hiding spot.

"You drive," Jensen says, tossing them to Jared. "I don't think I should operate heavy machinery today."

Jared catches them and hesitates, fidgeting. "Where are we going?"

"My place," Jensen says. "Yours isn't safe anymore. We'll get your stuff."

Jared turns the wrong way at the end of the street. Oh, right.

"Not that place," Jensen says. "My real apartment."

He gives Jared directions, and sends Chris a text suggesting most strongly that Chris find someone else to room with for the weekend.

He must have fallen asleep again, because he wakes up when Jared's parallel parking across from his place.

"Thanks," he says, and leads Jared into the building.

"Breakfast?" he says, closing the apartment door behind them. "I have no idea what's in the fridge, but I think I left some frozen waffles."

"I'm good," Jared says. "I ate before you woke up."

Jensen nods in acknowledgment.

There's an awkward silence.

"Do we need to talk?" he asks.

"I guess." Jared doesn't sound enthused.

"In that case," Jensen says, heading for the kitchen, "I need more coffee."

He might not have lived here in months, but there will be coffee in the top cupboard. Chris knows better than to mess with his stash.

"I'm sorry," Jared says to the back of his head, as he's measuring grounds into the machine. "You probably don't remember our conversation from last night, but you told me that you _do_ remember yesterday afternoon."

"I do," Jensen says, turning to face him. "And I'm not sorry for that. You didn't take advantage. That wasn't...I wasn't just being nice to you, man. I wanted that."

"I wanted it for a long time," Jared says, ducking his chin and blushing. "Yesterday, I was kind of out of my head, and I quit rationalizing to myself why it was a bad idea."

"It was definitely not a bad idea," Jensen says. "And stop worrying that you took advantage of me. If anything, it was the other way around."

"What? God, no. I started it all."

"That's not what I'm talking about." Jensen bites his lip. "Yesterday at your place... it wasn't the first time."

Jared squints in confusion. "What?"

"You remember the night at the club, when we all went out?"

"Not really." Jared frowns. "You know that."

"We hooked up."

Jared gapes. "What?"

Various expressions chase across his face. The one that settles is mostly incredulous, maybe slightly pissed off. "No way. I don't... why wouldn't you say anything?" His jaw clenches. "God, did I do something stupid? Were you relieved I didn't remember?"

Jensen shakes his head vigorously. "No! Hell, no. It was great. But I figured you didn't mean it. You didn't remember a thing." He bites his lip. "I didn't realize until afterwards that you were drugged."

Jared folds his arms across his chest and looks at Jensen consideringly. He doesn't say anything for half a minute. The drip of the coffeemaker is loud in the silence.

"You've been recently drugged yourself," he points out finally. "Are you still under the influence?"

Jensen blinks. "Maybe? It's not too bad. I can still remember our conversation with Jeff."

"Good." Jared's gaze ignites with heat. "Because I really want to have sex with you now, and I don't want anyone accusing me of taking advantage. You have scary friends."

"I'm scarier," Jensen says, opening his arms. "Get your ass over here."

***********************

Monday's meeting starts at eight a.m.

"We operate outside the law," Jensen says grumpily, settling into his chair. "Unconstrained by the rules of society. Why the hell do we have to work to their clock?"

"We don't," Jeff replies. "Not all of us are night owls, you know. I wake up at six." He grins. "My organization, my rules."

"Do rules allow PDA in meetings?" Katie asks. "Because I'm not sure I can stand it if they're going to be this disgustingly cute on a regular basis."

Jared sticks his tongue out at her and snuggles Jensen more closely against his side.

Jared's quite definitely a morning person. He's already been out running, had a shower, and given Jensen a wake-up blowjob. _And_ he made coffee.

The country might be falling to pieces but Jensen's life is looking pretty damn sweet right now.

"Feel free to contribute PDA of your own," he tells Katie.

Aldis perks up.

"In your dreams."

Aldis deflates.

"Katie brings up a good point, though," Jeff says. He's not unkind, but he's looking seriously at Jared. "Are you sure you want to be here, Jared?"

Jared nods. "Yes."

"You've got a lot going for you," Jeff says. "The school doesn't expect you to defend this term, not with your family and all. You could go back in the fall. Finish up your degree. Get a legitimate job." He clears his throat. "Don't get me wrong. I'm happy to have you on the team. But don't throw your future away just because Jensen works here."

"I'm not," Jared says carefully. He unwraps his arm from Jensen's shoulders, but his hand finds Jensen's and grips it. "It's not that. It's...you guys are doing something."

He looks from Chris to Aldis, Katie to Jeff. "We sat around talking, theorizing, writing papers. Twiddling our thumbs and staring at our navels, while the real shit was _happening,_ right there. I can't go back to academia and spend months writing some paper nobody except my PhD committee's going to read, when the country's falling apart and you guys are the only ones trying to _do_ something. I want to be where the action is."

He's tense, muscles twitching, ready for a fight. If separatists walked through the door right now, Jensen would bet Jared would beat them to a pulp.

Jared's lost his parents, his baby sister, and his comfortable outlook on life. He's grieving, and not really thinking straight right now. But there'll be time. They'll weather what comes, see where the chips fall. Jeff may be right, it may be too late to stop it; maybe the country's going to dissolve around them. But when the dust settles, he'll make sure Jared gets back to school. The government—whatever government it turns out to be—is going to need good thinkers.

"Christ, I hope we're not the only ones," Chris says dryly. "God help the USA."

"We don't always do noble." Katie takes her booted feet off the chair in front of her, and swings round to look seriously at Jared. "Mostly, I do stuff for money."

"You'll get action here," Jeff says. "But I gotta tell you, I don't think we can change the outcome on this. Things are pretty far gone already. This morning, the Republic of Cascadia declared itself independent."

Jared and Jensen had missed that, what with the sleeping in and the blowjob and all.

"California won't be far behind. From what I hear, the Greens are already planning a take-over. The Confederacy's not going to stay under Yankee government when others are pulling away, so they'll probably strike out on their own next. My prediction is that the religious right is probably gonna take Utah, New Mexico and Arizona, maybe expand up into the mid-west, while the blue states up in the north-east will clump together."

"Sounds like you think it's inevitable," Katie says. "So what are we going to do?"

"Whatever we can," Jeff says. "Damage control."

***********************

"We should get a dog," Jared says, as they walk out of headquarters.

Jensen makes a face. "What are we gonna do with a dog when we're on assignment?"

"Bring him with us, of course."

Jensen snorts. "Yeah, that'll work out well."

"No, hear me out." Jared's lighting up again, hands waving. "The shelter's got an ex-police dog. His owner was killed in the line of duty. He wouldn't take to another officer, and he was getting near retirement anyway—they retire them at five years no matter what—but he can't go to just any home, so they've had trouble placing him."

"You want a dog that a shelter's having trouble placing."

"He's a good dog!" Jared says. "He's just... he's a working dog, not a family pet. He's friendly enough, and he likes me. And he could be really useful! Just think, what if you needed someone tracked? Or, I bet he's trained to detect explosives." He frowns. "Not that... I mean, I hope there aren't explosives. Shit. Do you deal with explosives?"

"I don't like explosives," Jensen says. "And don't you go getting mixed up in them either. That's Chris's territory."

Jared gapes for a moment, then recovers. "See? Harley'd fit right in!"

"Fine," Jensen sighs. "You can get a dog."

"No," Jared corrects him. "We can get a dog."

Jensen stops walking and looks at Jared for a long moment: altruistic, smart, gorgeous, with a smile to rival the sunshine.

 _And_ mad skills in bed.

How the hell did he get so lucky?

"Let's go home," he says.


End file.
